FIELD 
FOREST- 
WAYS  I  DE- 
FLOWERS 

ey    BY    *-^> 

MAUD  GOING 


UC-NRLF 


B    3   T05    103 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

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Field,   Forest,  and  Wayside   Flowers 


(Botncj 


WITH  THE  WILD  FLOWERS.  FROM  PUSSY- 
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icle of  our  Flower  Friends  and  Foes,  describ- 
ing them  under  their  Familiar  English  Names. 
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FIELD,  FOREST,  AND  WAYSIDE  FLOW- 
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THE    BAKER    AND    TAYLOR    COMPANY 
Publishers,  5  and  7  East  Sixteenth  Street,  New  York 


MAY-APPLE  (Podophyllum  pellatum}.     (See  p.  56^ 


Field,    Forest,    and 

Wayside    Flowers 

With   Chapters  on  Grasses,   Sedges 
and  Ferns 


Untechnical  Studies 
for  Unlearned  Lovers  oj  Nature 


BY 

MAUD    GOING 

(E.  M.  HARDINGE) 


Hlttftrsttlf  fn  part  tottfj  Dratoincjs  from 
i>2?  S.  ©f.  porter  anli 

>.  Utitrolii 


NEW  YORK 
THE   BAKER   AND   TAYLOR   COMPANY 

5  AND  7  EAST  SIXTEENTH  STREET 


Copyright,  1899, 

by 
THE   BAKER  &  TAYLOR  CO. 


ROBERT    ORUMMOND.    PRINTER,    NEW   YORK. 


Foreword 

THE  chapters  of  this  book  are  so  arranged  as  to 
follow  the  waxing  and  waning  of  plant-life  during 
an  average  season  in  the  northeastern  United 
States. 

By  this  plan  a  few  repetitions  have  been  abso- 
lutely unavoidable,  and  for  these  the  author  apolo- 
gizes to  the — she  hopes — "  gentle"  reader.  The 
only  other  arrangement  possible  would  have  been 
a  systematic  one,  adopting  the  most  recent  views 
as  to  the  relationship  and  development  of  plant- 
families.  I  hardly  had  courage  for  such  an  enter- 
prise as  this,  and  moreover  the  thing  has  been 
done  so  fully,  so  ably,  and  so  recently,  that  the 
student  who  seeks  a  systematic  botany  will  find  his 
wants  already  amply  supplied. 

This  book  is  written  more  especially  for  people 
who  have  not  time,  or,  perhaps,  inclination,  to 
become  actual  students,  who  have  not  familiarized 
themselves  with  botanic  nomenclature  and  tech- 
nial  terms,  and  who  yet  love  to  observe  the  beau- 
ties and  the  wonders  of  familiar  plant-life. 


M348131 


viii  Foreword 

"  A  little  learning  is  a  dangerous  thing,"  was 
written  before  the  days  of  Nature-study.  In  that 
domain  "  a  little  learning,"  provided  always  that 
it  be  accurate  as  far  as  it  goes,  is  a  stimulus  to 
much  interesting  work,  opens  the  eyes  to  many 
beauties,  and  proves  an  every-day  delight ;  for  what 
one  finds  in  the  fields  depends  largely  upon  what 
one  takes  into  them,  and  in  field  and  forest,  as 
elsewhere,  "  the  eye  sees  that  which  it  brings 
with  it  the  power  of  seeing." 

The  young  hero  of  an  old  Geiman  fairy-tale 
wandered  far  and  wide,  seeking  the  key-flower 
which  he  had  seen  in  dreams,  and  which  was  to 
open  for  him  a  treasure-house  of  riches.  And 
when  he  returned  from  his  long  and  fruitless  quest 
he  found  the  magic  blossom  blowing  at  the  thresh- 
old of  his  door. 

Perhaps  this  means  that  we  shall  find  our  purest 
joys,  after  all,  in  the  simple  things  which  are  in 
reach  of  most  of  us — such  as  the  love  of  kindred, 
the  friendship  of  books,  and  the  companionship 
of  Nature,  which,  constant  through  all  changes, 
ever  shows  us  the  same  winsome  face. 

My  sincere  thanks  are  due  to  the  publishers  of 
the  "Popular  Science  Monthly,"  the  New  York 
"  Evening  Post,"  "  Arthur's  Home  Magazine," 


Foreword  ix 

and  "  Merry  Times,"  for  permission  to  issue,  in 
their  present  guise,  such  portions  of  this  book  as 
have  appeared  in  their  respective  publications. 

M.  G. 


Contents 


CHAPTER    I. 
CROCUSES 17 

CHAPTER   II. 
DANDELIONS 36 

CHAPTER   III. 
IN  APRIL  WEATHER 49 

CHAPTER   IV. 
THE  FLOWERING  OF  THE  FOREST-TREES 64 

CHAPTER    V. 
GREEN  LEAVES  AT  WORK 87 

CHAPTER   VI. 
LILY-KIN  AND  ROSE-KIN , n6 

CHAPTER   VII. 
GRASSES T4Q 

CHAPTER   VIII. 
RUSHES  AND  SEDGES !77 

CHAPTER    IX. 
NIGHT  FLOWERS I99 

CHAPTER   X. 
CLIMBING  PLANTS.  . 


xii  Contents 

CHAPTER  XI. 
THE  SPORING  OF  THE  FERN 246 

CHAPTER  XII. 
THE  SENIORS  OF  THE  FOREST 268 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
DOGBANE  AND  MILKWEED 300 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
THISTLES  AND  NETTLES 317 

CHAPTER  XV. 
A  HANDFUL  OF  WEEDS 347 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
THE  SLEEPING  OF  THE  FIELDS 363 

CHAPTER  XVIT. 
MARTINMAS  SUMMER.... 373 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 
IN  WINTER  WOODS.  , 384 


List  of  Illustrations 

Frontispiece,  May-apple  (Podophyllum  peltatuni). 

FIG.  PAGE 

i.     Golden    crocus  (Crocus  aurens),  with    analysis    of   the 

flower 20 

2a.  Calyces  of  differing  forms,  Fox-glove,  aconite,  fuchsia, 

valerian,  flax,  and  loose-strife —  21 

zb.  Corollas  of  various  form.  Tobacco-plant,  lilac,  sage, 

arbutus,  pea,  convolvulus,  pink,  and  geranium 23 

3a.  A  pollen  grain  of  the  melon  (much  magnified) 24 

3^.  Pollen  grains  of  the  European  hazel  (Corylus  Avellana) 

putting  forth  their  pollen  tubes v  . . .     26 

4.  Florets  and  fruits  of  the  dandelion 41 

5.  Some  altered  calyces  of  composite  flowers.     Groundsel 

calyx  altered  into  down.  Bur  marigold  calyx  altered 
into  prongs.  Orange  hawk-weed  calyx  altered  into 
bristles  (all  magnified) 46 

6.  Fruit  of  the  elm 50 

7.  (a)  Sleeping  and  (b)  expanding  buds  of  the  horse-chest- 

nut      55 

8.  Apple  twig  showing  old  bud-scale  marks 58 

9.  Blossoms  of  the  butternut 67 

10.  Blossoms  of  the  oak  (a)  pistillate,  (b)  staminate 70 

11.  Details  of  the  blossoming    butternut,  (a)  A  cluster  of 

pistillate  flowers,  (d)  one  stamen  bearing  scale  de- 
tached from  the  staminate  flower-chain,  (c)  a  single 
stamen 72 

12.  Buds  of  the  ash 76 

13.  Perfect  (a)  staminate  (t>)  and  pistillate  (c)  flowers  of  the 

European  ash  (Fraxinus  excelsior) 77 

14.  Young  horse-chestnut  bur  and  young  acorns 83 

15.  Twinned  fruit  of  the  maple 85 

16.  Magnified  section  of  the  green  tissue  of  a  leaf go 

xiii 


xiv  List  of  Illustrations 

FIG.  PAGE 

17.  Some  common  fresh-water  algae;  (a)  zygnema;  (b)  mon- 

geotia;  (<•)  spirogyra  (much  magnified) 95 

1 8.  Pine-sap  (Monotrapa  hypopitys] 99 

19.  Starch  grains  of  the  potato  (a)  and  of  wheat  (b) 104 

20.  Epidermal  cell  and  one  stoma  of  a  fern  (much  magnified)  107 

21.  Stoma  of  a  cycas  (much  magnified) 108 

22.  Four   natives    of  South   Africa  :     i.    A   South    African 

groundsel;    2,  a  typical  cactus;    3,   a  sponge;    4,  a 
milkweed in 

23.  A  climbing  spray  of  the  pea 114 

24.  Parallel-veined  leaves  of  the  Indian  shot 122 

25.  Net-veined  leaves  of  the  lime  tree 124 

26.  Blade-like  leaves  of  the  Iris  with  clasping  bases 125 

27.  Crosswise  section  of  a  Palmetto  trunk 127 

28.  Crosswise    section  of  the  trunk  of  a  young  oak   tree 

showing  growth  rings 135 

29.  Wild  roses 137 

30.  A  lily-flower 140 

31.  Seed-vessel  of  the  tulip 140 

32.  Sweet-flag  (Acorus  Calamus) 141 

33.  A  single  floret  of  the  sweet-flag  (magnified) 144 

34.  June  aspect  of  the  cat-tail  flags 145 

35.  Single  florets  of  the  cat-tail  flag  (magnified) 147 

36.  Some  familiar  grasses 1 50 

37.  "  Marram  grass,"  "  beach  grass  "  or  "  sea-sand  "  reed 

(Ammophila  arundinacea  of  Gray} 152 

38.  Stems  of  the  rye,  showing  the  knots  or  nodes 158 

39.  Ligula  of  millet-grass 161 

40.  Oats  and  yarrow  with  analyses  of  their  flowers 163 

41.  Single  flower  of  a  grass  (magnified) 167 

42.  Caryopsis  of  the  wheat  (magnified) 168 

43.  Sand-bur  grass  (Cenchrus  tribuloides] 170 

44.  Squirrel-tail  grass  (Hordeum  jubatuni} 171 

45.  Common  reed  (Phragmites  communis) 174 

46.  Five  familiar  water-rushes 178 

47.  A  wood-rush  (Lazula  campestris) 180 

48.  Lengthwise  section  of  the  tubular  leaf  of  a  "knotty- 

leaved  "  rush  (magnified). 182 

49.  Flower-cluster  and  flower  analysis  of  a  common  water- 

rush  {Juncus  articulatus] 184 


List  of  Illustrations  xv 

FIG.  PAGE 

50.  Rush  seeds  (much  magnified) 186 

51.  Some  New  England  sedges 189 

52.  From  low-lying  fields  "  Wool-grass  "  and  "  Beak-rush,"  192 

53.  A  typical  carex  ( Carex  hystricina) 195 

54.  Nocturnal  guests  of  the  honeysuckle  {Sphinx  ligustri 

and  Sphinx  convolvtili) 203 

55.  Pollen  of  the  honeysuckle  (magnified) 204 

56.  "  Day  "  or  "  Japan  "  lilies  (Funkia  Japonicii) 205 

57.  Adam's  Needle  and  Thread  (  Yucca  filamentosa} 209 

58.  A  wild  evening  primrose  (CEnothera  biennis) 215 

59.  Jimson  weed  (Datura  stramonium} 217 

60.  Nightly  visitor  to  the  jimson  weed  (Sphinx  Carolina)...  218 

61.  Hedgebind  weed  (Convolvulus  sepiuni) 219 

62.  Bouncing  Bet  (Saponaria  offiicinalis') 223 

63.  Day  lichnis  or  corn-cockle  (Lychnis  gitJiago) 226 

64^;.  A  flower-clock  (morning) 228 

64^.    A  flower-clock  (afternoon  and  evening) 229 

65.  English  ivy  (Pledera  helix) ...  234 

66.  Bind  weed  and  hop-vine 238 

67.  Scaling    hooks    of    the    Virginia    creeper   (Ampefapsis 

quinquefolia}    and    of    the    wild    clematis    (Clematis 

Virginiana) ...  241 

68.  Prothallus  of  a  Southern  fern  (Petris  serrulata) 251 

69.  Antherozoids  of  Pteris  serrulata  (much  magnified 253 

70.  Young   archegonium   of   a    garden    maiden-hair    (Adi- 

antum  cuneatum}  (much  magnified) 255 

71.  "  Male-fern  "  (Aspidiiirn  felix  maas) 260 

72.  Opening  sporangium  of  a  Florida  fern  (Pteris  creticd). .  262 

73.  Vegetative  and  spore-bearing  fronds   of  the   sensitive 

fern  (Onoclea  sensibilis) 263 

74.  Spores  of  a  club-moss  (Lycopodium  complanatum)  (mag- 

nified)   267 

75.  A  seedling  pine 271 

76.  Leaf-cluster  and    bud-scales    of  the  white-pine  (Pinus 

strobus) 275 

77.  A  spray  of  the  balsam-fir  (Abies  balsamea) 277 

78.  Crosswise   section  of  the  trunk  of  a  fir-tree  showing 

growth-rings 281 

79.  Tracheids  of  the  fir-tree 284 

80.  Winged  pollen  of  the  fir  (much  magnified) 287 


xvi  List  of  Illustrations 

FIG.  PAGE 

81.  Flowers  of  the  Scotch  pine  (Pinus  sylvestris). 288 

82.  A  large  ("  macro  ")  and  two  small  ("  micro")  spores  of 

Selaginella  martensi  (much  magnified) 291 

83.  Young  carpel,  mature  carpel,  and  part  of  a  mature  cone 

of  the  silver  fir  (Abies pectinata} 297 

84.  Spreading  dogbane  (Apocynum  androscemi folium} 301 

85.  Trap  of  the  spreading  dogbane  (magnified) 305 

86.  Common  milk-weed  (Asclepias  cornuti} 307 

87.  Trop  of  the  milk-weed  (magnified)   310 

88.  A  dogbane  flower  and  its  captive 315 

89.  Nettle    and   Canada    thistle  (Urtica    dioica    and   Cnicus 

arvensis} 318 

90.  Burdock  (Arctium  Lappa} 321 

91.  Common  wild  teasel  (Dipsacus  sylvestris) 324 

92.  Irish  gorse,  furze  or  whin  (Ulex  Europceus}   327 

93.  Single  blossoms  of  the  nettle 331 

94.  Common  thistle  (Cnicus  lanceolatus} 334 

95.  White  clover  blossoms  gathered  in  latter  summer 340 

96.  Pasture  thistles  ( Cnicus  pumilis} 343 

97.  Amaranth  and  sow-thistle  {Amaranttis  retroflexus  and 

Sonchus  asper} 348 

98.  "  Ribwort  "  (Plantago  major}  and  "  ripple  grass  "  (Plan- 

tago  lanceolata} 358 

;  gga.  Cork  cells   from    the    leaf  scar   of    the  horse-chestnut 

(much  magnified) 365 

99^.  Leaf  scar  of  the  horse-chestnut  (magnified) 369 

100.  Witch  hazel  (Hamamelis  Virginica} 374 

101.  Lengthwise  section   of   a  root-tip   showing    root    hairs 

(much  magnified) 391 

102.  Branches  of  the  alder  and   of  the  poplar-leaved  birch 

showing  numerous  lenticels 393 


And  'tis  my  faith  that  every  flower 
Enjoys  the  air  it  breathes." 

WORDSWORTH. 


FIELD,  FOREST,  AND  WAYSIDE 
FLOWERS 


CHAPTER    I 
CROCUSES 

"As  sweet  desire  of  day  before  the  day, 
As  dreams  of  love  before  the  true  love  born, 
From  the  outer  edge  of  winter  over-worn, 
The  ghost  arisen  of  May  before  the  May 
Takes  through  dim  air  her  unawakened  way." 

— Swinburne. 

IT  seems,  at  first,  an  inconsistency  that  so  many 
of  the  monastic  communities  of  old  should  have 
owned  and  tended  gardens.  A  garden : — the  word 
suggests  roses  and  honeysuckles,  early  peas  and  lus- 
cious strawberries,  summer  days  passed  amid  fair 
surroundings,  whatsoever  is  most  opposite  to  the 
unbeautified  life,  meagre  fare,  and  narrow  cell  of 
the  ascetic. 

Even  if  the  gardens  grew  only  bitter  herbs  for 
fast-day  pottages  the  south  wind  wafted  perfumes 
over  them,  the  butterflies  danced  in  them,  and  the 

birds    sang    in    them    joyous    strains,  likely    to    lead 

17 


1 8     Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

the  listener's  thoughts  far  away  from  sin,  death, 
and  judgment. 

Only  experience  teaches  what,  it  seems,  the  early 
fathers  of  the  church  well  knew,  that  tending  gar- 
den is  at  once  a  school  and  a  test  for  all  the 
great  Christian  virtues. 

In  hope  one  lays  out  hard-earned  dollars  for 
seeds,  roots,  tools,  fertilizers,  re-enforcements  to 
the  fence,  and  wages  of  a  man  to  "  spade  up." 

Faith  in  Nature  and  in  the  florist's  integrity  is 
sorely  needed  when,  day  after  day,  the  beds  show 
only  a  few  sticks,  upholding  scraps  of  paper  seed- 
bags,  and  marking  the  locations  of  hoped-for  crops. 

And  charity  towards  that  florist  is  severely 
tested  when  those  crops  fail  to  appear  for  all  the 
wooing  of  the  south  wind — and  we  begin  to  sus- 
pect him  of  foisting  off  superannuated  seeds  upon 
our  guileless  simplicity. 

But  the  gardener  might  as  well  be  charitable 
with  a  good  grace,  for  he  must  be  charitable 
whether  or  no. 

The  result  of  the  sweat  of  his  brow  and  the 
emptying  of  his  pocketbook  is  shared  with  all 
creation.  He  is  almoner  to  countless  creatures 
which  give  him  no  gratitude. 

The  moles  and  slugs  nibble  his  vegetables.     The 


Crocuses  19 

birds  sample  his  fruit,  and  a  host  of  bees,  moths, 
beetles,  and  butterflies  share  his  pleasure  in  his 
flowers. 

These  insect  visitors,  however,  are  respectable 
wage-workers.  It  would  be  unjust  to  call  them 
pensioners  of  the  garden,  for  the  flowers  would  be 
as  ill  off  without  them  as  they  without  the  flowers, 
and  next  year's  borders  will  be  all  the  brighter 
and  sweeter,  thanks  to  this  year's  butterflies  and 
bees. 

The  few  glimpses  of  sunshine  which  this  March 
day  vouchsafes  us  have  already  tempted  out  an 
enterprising  bee.  Her  contented  droning  comes 
from  the  cup  of  an  equally  enterprising  yellow 
crocus  (Fig.  i) — to  her  a  pavilion  of  gold  wherein 
is  spread  a  feast  of  nectar  fit  for  the  gods. 

Six  yellow  leaves,  joined  at  their  bases  and 
separate  above,  form  the  dainty  cup  of  the  crocus- 
flower. 

Three  of  these  are  generally  somewhat  larger 
than  the  rest,  and  in  -the  bud  they  enfolded  the 
smaller  trio  within  them. 

The  larger  and  outer  leaves  are  the  "  calyx" 
of  the  crocus-blossom  and  the  inner  and  smaller 
ones  are  its  "  corolla."  But  the  calyx  now  in 
question  is  exceptionally  big  and  beautiful. 


20     Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 


FIG.  I. — Golden  crocus  (Crocus  aureus). 

(From  Curtis'  Botanical  Magazine?) 
the  blossom  split  lengthwise  ;  <5,  one  stamen  ;  c,  the  pistil. 


Crocuses 


21 


That  of  most  flowers  is  a  modest  affair  (Fig.  20), 
composed    of    tiny    green    leaves,    or   sepals,    which 


Valerian. 


Flax. 


Loosestrife. 


FIG.  2a. — Calyces  of  differing  forms. 
(From  the  Vegetable  World.) 

are  quite  eclipsed  by  the  superior  size  and  bril- 
liancy of  the  petals  or  flower-leaves  within  them 
(Fig.  2b). 


22      Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

In  this  crocus,  however,  the  sepals  not  only  rival 
the  petals,  but  outdo  them  in  prettiness. 

Within  the  flower's  chalice  are  three  stalks,  each 
topped  with  a  long,  golden  head.  These  are  the 
stamens. 

The  long  heads  are  powder-boxes,  and  the  yel- 
low dust  which  they  contain  has  a  power  as  won- 
derful as  that  of  any  fairy's  wand. 

At  the  very  heart  of  the  crocus  is  a  column, 
tall  and  erect,  surmounted  by  a  fluted  capital 
tipped  with  gold.  This  is  the  pistil.  Its  duty, 
in  the  floral  division  of  labor,  is  to  form,  protect, 
and,  in  due  time,  distribute  the  young  seed.  In 
its  lower  part,  at  flowering  time,  we  will  find  a 
number  of  tiny  green  bodies  destined  to  become 
seeds,  if  all  goes  well. 

This  crocus  has  just  unfolded,  and  the  baby 
seeds  within  its  pistil  are  not  quickened  yet. 
They  may  never  live  at  all,  but  wither  with  the 
perishing  flower,  and  thus  die  before  they  are 
really  born.  Life  can  be  given  to  them  only  by 
the  magic  powder  which  the  stamens  contain. 

In  the  older  works  on  botany  this  powder  is 
called  "  pollen,"  but  the  most  recent  books  on  the 
wonders  of  plant-life  give  it  a  name  more  pon- 
derous and  technical,  but  well  worth  remembering, 


Crocuses 


Pink.  Geranium. 

FIG   2b—  Corollas  of  various  forms. 
(From  the  Vegetable  World.} 


24     Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

because  whoever  invented  it  had  in  mind  the  re- 
lationship which  binds  together  all  plants,  from  the 
humblest  to  the  highest. 

So  in  the  "up-to-date"  writings  on  flower-lore 
these  little  grains — brown  or  golden — are  called 
"  microspores. " 

Each  microspore  is  a  simple  cell, — a  little  bag, — 
generally  lined  with  a  delicate  membrane,  and 
always  filled  with  a  colorless  jelly. 

Under  a  powerful  microscope  the  microspores  of 
many  flowers  look  as  if  they  had  been  daintily 
carved,  like  the  beads  of  a  rosary. 

On  the  surfaces  of  very  many  of  them  there  are 
tiny  holes,  or  slits,  or  little  lids, 
which  fall  off  readily  (Fig.  3^)  and 
expose  the  delicate  lining  mem- 
brane. 

The  boxes,   or  "  anthers,"  which 

FIG.  3#. — A  pollen- 
grain  of  the  melon,  hold   the  microspores  of    the  crocus 

(From  the  Vegetable 

split  open  as  soon  as  the  bud 
expands  and  shed  their  golden  store.  The  bee, 
blundering  about  inside  the  flower,  gets  herself  well 
sprinkled,  and,  when  she  flies  off,  with  powdered 
body,  to  find  and  visit  another  courageous  crocus, 
she  will  be  almost  certain  to  rub  off  a  few  yellow 
grains  upon  the  tip  of  its  pistil. 


Crocuses  25 

This  spot, — the  stigmatic  surface, — is  the  goal 
of  the  microspores.  It  is  very  various  in  its  ap- 
pearance in  different  flowers.  Sometimes  it  is  a 
little  knob,  sometimes  a  small  point,  sometimes, 
as  in  this  crocus,  it  spreads  into  many  rays  like  a 
star.  In  many  flowers  it  is  covered  with  short 
hairs,  or  with  minute  knobs,  among  which  pollen- 
grains  may  be  caught  and  held  fast.  In  the 
orchids  it  is  just  a  little  surface  of  bare  tissue. 
But,  whatever  is  its  outward  semblance,  Nature 
has  prepared  it  to  receive  pollen  by  moistening 
it  with  a  sugary  fluid,  so  that  any  grains  which 
touch  it  may  adhere,  and  may  germinate  upon  it. 

Directly  a  speck  of  the  life-giving  dust  settles 
down  on  the  stigmatic  surface  it  begins  to  do  its 
appointed  work  there.  In  most  instances  the  thin 
inner  coat  of  the  little  bag  swells  up  at  one  place 
into  a  hump,  which  thrusts  itself  through  one  of 
the  holes  in  the  outer  case,  or  pushes  off  one  of 
the  lids,  or,  it  may  be,  forces  its  way  outward 
through  a  thin  spot  (Fig.  3$).  The  hump  grows 
bigger,  becoming  a  sac,  and,  at  last,  a  tube, 
which,  in  some  flowers,  attains  a  length  of  several 
inches.  This  tube  grows  downward  into  the  sub- 
stance of  the  pistil,  much  as  a  strong  rootlet 
burrows  into  rich  light  soil. 


26      Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

All  is  ready  for  its  reception.  The  part  of  the 
pistil  which  it  must  penetrate  is  never  filled  with 
anything  more  substantial  than  a  loose  mass  of 
large  cells,  called  "  conducting  tissue,"  and,  in  some 


FIG.  3<£. — Pollen-grains  of  the  European  hazel  or  filbert  (Corylus 
Avellana)  putting  forth  their  pollen-tubes. 

few  species  of  blossom,  it  is  empty.  So  in  due  time 
the  end  of  the  pollen-tube  reaches  one  of  the  baby 
seeds  in  the  pistil's  base,  and  enters  it  by  a  minute 
orifice  in  the  seed-coat. 


Crocuses  27 

Inside  the  baby  seed  is  another  little  globe  or 
sac  filled  with  colorless  jelly — the  "  macrospore " 
or  embryo-sac.  The  pollen-tube  pushes  its  way 
downward  till  it  touches  and  pierces  this  little 
globe.  Then  part  of  the  drop  of  jelly  which  has 
filled  the  pollen-grain  or  microspore  enters  the 
macrospore  and  fuses  with  its  jelly,  and  when  this 
union  takes  place  the  purpose  for  which  the  blos- 
som blew  has  been  achieved.  From  the  fusion  of 
microspore  and  macrospore  comes  life,  or  rather 
the  possibility  of  life,  for  from  their  united  sub- 
stance Nature  begins  to  mould  and  build  a  tiny 
plant  within  the  young  seed. 

The  time  which  elapses  between  the  first  touch 
of  the  microspore  upon  the  stigmatic  surface  and 
the  quickening  of  the  seed  that  is  to  be,  varies 
greatly  in  flowers  of  different  species.  The  pollen- 
tube  of  the  crocus  takes  from  one  to  three  days 
in  finding  its  way  to  the  macrospore.  But  this  is 
not  because  the  crocus  pistil  is  long,  for  in  the 
great  night-blooming  cereus,  which  has  a  pistil  nine 
inches  in  length,  the  pollen-tube  penetrates  to  the 
macrospore  in  a  few  hours,  while  in  some  flowers, 
as  in  certain  varieties  of  orchid,  weeks  elapse 
while  the  tube  is  descending  a  very  short  distance. 

Each    macrospore    can    be    vitalized    by  the   con- 


28      Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

tents  of  one  single  tube,  so  but  one  microspore  is 
necessary  to  the  development  of  a  seed. 

But  Nature  provides  the  golden  dust  in  lavish 
profusion.  It  has  been  estimated  that  twenty 
thousand  grains  are  contained  in  one  single  stamen 
of  a  peony,  and  some  stamens  yield  the  vitalizing 
powder  in  even  greater  abundance. 

This  is  because  Nature  must  provide  microspores 
enough  to  meet  the  needs  of  all  the  macrospores 
in  all  the  flowers  that  blow,  after  an  enormous 
amount  of  the  precious  powder  has  been  wasted. 

Some  blows  away,  some  is  washed  earthward  by 
rain  or  dew,  some  is  eaten  by  ants  and  other 
crawling  intruders,  much  is  gathered  by  the  bees,* 
to  be  made  into  *'  bee-bread,"  and  many  grains 
are  dropped  by  flying  insects,  before  the  pistil  of 
a  sister  blossom  has  been  reached. 

The  use  of  pollen  in  the  floral  economy  was 
suspected, — at  least  in  the  case  of  certain  blos- 
soms,— even  in  classic  times.  And  the  fact  that 
the  pollen-grain  must  give  of  its  substance  to  the 
pistil  before  the  seed  can  be  vitalized  has  been 
known  for  two  centuries.  But  only  in  recent 
times  have  Nature-students  made  a  discovery 
which  casts  a  flood  of  light  upon  the  mysteries 
of  the  flowers, — and  it  is  this:  The  macrospore  in 


Crocuses  29 

most  cases'  is  vitalized  not  by  the  pollen  of 
the  flower  in  which  it  is  formed,  but  by  the 
pollen  from  some  other  flower  of  the  same  species. 

And  even  those  flowers  which  can  make  shift 
to  get  along  with  home-made  pollen  achieve  better 
results  with  the  imported  article. 

Thus  the  pistil  of  the  crocus  will  form  larger 
and  stronger  seeds  if  it  can  get  pollen  from  a 
sister  blossom,  or,  better  still,  from  another  crocus 
plant  altogether.  So  the  flowers  wish  to  send  the 
yellow  powder  about,  from  one  to  another,  for 
their  mutual  benefit,  and  the  bee  behaves  as  if  she 
had  been  taken  into  their  confidence.  She  has 
flown  out  of  our  yellow  crocus  now,  as  dusty  as 
a  miller,  and  has  gone  droning  into  another  one, 
which  is  growing  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  garden 
walk.  As  she  reaches  down  into  the  bottom  of 
its  chalice,  for  the  sweets  she  hopes  to  find  there, 
some  grains  of  the  pollen  she  has  brought  in  with 
her  will  be  rubbed  off  her  velvet  jacket  onto  the 
waiting  pistil. 

Crocus  number  two  accepts  this  unintentional 
donation  with  pleasure,  pays  for  it  with  a  drop  of 
nectar,  and  gives  also  a  sprinkling  of  pollen  from 
her  own  stamens.  The  bee,  carrying  the  powdered 
gold  which  has  just  been  bestowed  upon  her,  flies 


30     Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

off  to  make  a  call  upon  a  third  crocus,  and  when 
she  departs  she  leaves  some  of  her  dusty  load 
behind  her,  as  a  souvenir  of  her  visit. 

So  each  crocus  "  sets  "  its  seed  by  aid  of  pollen 
brought  from  another  flower. 

Each  flower  has  gratified  its  preference  for  yellow 
dust  of  foreign  manufacture,  and  has  received  enough 
of  the  imported  article  for  her  dainty  uses,  and  each 
has  sent  the  pollen  of  her  own  making  to  the  exact 
spot  "  where  it  will  do  the  most  good."  The  bee 
meantime  has  been  entertained  everywhere  with 
pretty  shows  and  luxurious  fare,  and  she  is  another 
well-satisfied  member  of  the  mutual  benefit  society. 

Bees  are  by  no  means  the  only  pollen-carriers 
employed  by  flowers. 

A  large  number  of  blossoms  entrust  their  fate, 
or  rather  the  fate  of  their  posterity,  to  the  mercy 
of  the  wind.  Others,  which  grow  and  blow  in 
ponds  or  streams,  confide  their  pollen  messages  to 
the  water.  Flowers  which  conduct  their  affairs 
after  these  methods  need  be  at  no  special  pains 
to  please  the  insects,  whose  services  they  neither 
ask  nor  need.  So  "wind-fertilized"  and  "water- 
fertilized"  blossoms  have  not  bright  colors,  nor 
fragrance,  nor  nectar.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  they 
must  produce  enormous  quantities  of  pollen  to 


Crocuses  3 i 

ensure  enough  for  Nature's  needs,  after  a  large 
proportion  has  been  blown  or  washed  away. 

The  wind-fertilized  flowers  of  the  poplar  shed  so 
much  pollen  that  it  may  be  seen,  on  breezy  spring 
days,  blowing  from  the  branches  in  light  clouds. 
And  at  one  time  in  the  summer  the  floating  pollen 
of  the  eel-grass,  and  of  some  other  pond  weeds,  is 
spread  in  sheets  over  the  surface  of  still  water. 
It  has  been  shed  by  those  aquatic  flowers  which 
blow  at  the  surface  of  the  water.  There  are  other 
aquatic  blossoms  which  expand  beneath  the  sur- 
face. Their  pollen  grains  are  of  much  the  same 
weight,  bulk  for  bulk,  as  the  surrounding  water, 
so  that  they  will  neither  float  nor  sink,  but  will 
remain  poised  at  about  the  level  of  the  flower 
they  seek.  And  the  individual  pollen  grains  of 
such  blossoms  are  often  long  and  narrow  in  form, 
so  that  they  cut  their  way  through  the  water,  as 
does  a  modern  ocean  greyhound. 

Wind-fertilized  flowers  are  adapted  in  various  ways 
to  their  chosen  assistants,  the  breezes.  They  have, 
for  the  most  part,  enormously  developed  stigmas, 
which  project  in  the  form  of  tails  or  brushes.  The 
pollen  of  such  flowers  is  light  and  dry,  that  it  may 
blow  easily,  and  the  brush-like  stigmas  are  covered 
with  points  or  hairs  which  catch  it  as  it  flies  past. 


32     Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

But  the  pollen  grains  which  are  to  be  entrusted 
to  insect  messengers  are  often  sticky  or  roughened 
all  over  with  little  points,  so  that  they  catch  on 
the  hairy  bodies  of  their  winged  porters,  and  cling. 

The  interdependence  between  flowers  and  their 
guests  has  lasted  for  so  many  generations,  that 
certain  insects  have  modified  their  chosen  blossoms 
somewhat,  and  the  flowers,  in  their  turn,  have 
modified  their  messengers.  Thus  there  have  come 
so  be  hereditary  friendships  in  the  outdoor  world, 
to  strong  and  so  enduring  that  Delphino,  who 
gave  the  subject  much  study,  has  made  a  rough 
classification  in  which  flowering  plants  are  graded 
"according  to  the  company  they  keep." 

His  "first  class"  are  adapted  for  the  larger 
bees.  They  have  diurnal  flowers,  with  colors  and 
scents  attractive  to  man  also. 

Flowers  of  the  second  class  are  the  particular 
friends  of  the  lesser  bees,  though  they  also  show 
hospitality  to  many  other  small  insects.  "  These 
flowers,"  says  Delphino,  rather  disparagingly,  "  have 
quite  incomprehensible  attractions  for  their  visitors." 

The  third  class  comprises  the  big-fly  flowers0 
These  are  often  in  dull  shades  of  yellow  and  red, 
and  exhale  an  odor  disagreeable  to  man  and  to 
bees. 


Crocuses  33 

Another  category  of  flowers  are  adapted  for 
fertilization  by  smaller  flies  and  lay  wait  for  these 
foolish  visitors  with  traps  and  snares,  as  does  our 
familiar  "  Jack-in-the- Pulpit.'* 

There  are  a  few  native  plants  which  use  carrion 
and  dung-flies  as  their  messengers.  The  carrion- 
flower  of  New  England  thickets  is  one  of  these. 
They  have  a  putrid  smell,  often  very  strong,  and 
dull-colored  or  greenish  blossoms. 

Delphino's  sixth  class  includes  those  plants 
which  seek  to  snare  the  fancy  and  secure  the 
services  of  beetles.  These  have  large  diurnal 
blossoms  with  striking  colors,  very  abundant  pollen, 
and  nectar  so  placed  that  it  is  within  easy  reach. 
Among  these  beetle-flowers  is  the  magnolia. 

Next  come  the  butterfly-flowers,  with  bright 
corollas,  and  with  their  nectar  concealed  at  the 
base  of  a  tube  so  long  and  narrow  that  only  their 
chosen  guests  can  reach  and  sip  it.  And  in  the 
eighth  class  Delphino  places  those  flowers  which 
seek  to  please  twilight  and  nocturnal  moths. 

Some  plants  have  become  so  dependent  on  the 
ministrations  of  insects  that  they  are  no  longer 
able  to  set  seed  by  aid  of  their  own  pollen.  It 
lies  upon  the  pistil  as  powerless  to  awaken  life  as 
if  it  were  mere  roadside  dust.  Some  of  the 


34     Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

orchids  go  even  further  in  their  repudiation  of  the 
pollen  which  they  themselves  have  produced.  The 
pistil  seems  poisoned  by  it,  and  withers  at  its 
touch. 

Many  flowers  have  special  devices  for  securing 
pollen  from  other  blossoms  and  for  avoiding  the 
use  of  their  own. 

In  a  number  of  species  the  stamens  ripen, 
open,  and  shed  their  store,  while  the  pistil  is  yet 
too  young  to  make  use  of  any  pollen  grains  it 
may  receive.  Then  when  the  pistil  is  old  enough 
to  commence  business,  and  asks  for  gold,  the  sur- 
rounding stamens  are  a  bankrupt  community,  with 
none  left  to  give.  But  "  all  things  come  at  last 
to  one  who  knows  how  to  wait."  Pollen  will  be 
wafted  to  the  pistil  by  a  summer  breeze,  or  car- 
ried to  it  by  a  winged  messenger — beetle,  fly, 
wasp,  moth,  butterfly,  humming-bird,  or  bee.  But 
it  will  be  pollen  from  another  flower,  and  that  is 
exactly  what  wise  Mother  Nature  has  been  plan- 
ning from  the  first. 

So  the  insects  which  flit  through  our  gardens  are 
combining  business  with  pleasure  and  doing  im- 
portant errands  for  the  flowers.  The  flowers  vie 
for  their  attentions  with  charming  toilettes,  and 
pay  for  their  services  with  free  lunches. 


Crocuses  35 

The  iris,  geranium,  gladiolus,  and  salvia,  which 
make  their  debut  later  in  spring  when  there  are 
many  beauties  in  the  field,  must  be  gay  if  they 
would  be  observed.  They  must  appear  in  cos- 
tumes which  "  shout,"  as  the  French  say. 

But  the  crocus  has  not  needed  a  bewilderingly 
splendid  dress  in  order  to  secure  attention,  because 
she  has  scarcely  a  rival  thus  early  in  the  season, 
and  it  is  rather  Hobson's  choice  with  the  bee. 

Thus  there  is  scarcely  a  single  brilliant  or  con- 
spicuous blossom  among  all  the  first  begotten  of 
the  spring.  The  early  wild  flowers  which  we  find 
in  sheltered  sunny  hollows  are  white,  or  pale-yel- 
low, or  lilac,  or  delicate  sea-shell  pink.  The 
spurred  columbines,  in  their  brilliant  uniforms  of 
red  and  gold,  will  not  appear  upon  the  rocks  till 
May.  They  have  but  coward  hearts,  for  all  their 
martial  colors,  and  dare  not  come  out  so  long  as 
Jack  Frost  and  the  North  Wind  prowl  abroad. 

But  the  Joans  of  Arc  among  the  flowers,  which 
lead  summer's  hosts  and  brave  winter's  last  des- 
perate onslaughts,  look  as  tender  and  demure  as 
Priscilla  "the  Mayflower  of  Plymouth." 


CHAPTER  II 
DANDELIONS 

Gold  such  as  thine  ne'er  drew  the  Spanish  prow 

Through  the  primeval  hush  of  Indian  seas, 
Nor  wrinkled  the  lean  brow 

Of  age,  to  rob  the  lover's  heart  of  ease. 
Tis  the  spring's  largess,  which  she  scatters  now 
To  rich  and  poor  alike. 

— Lowell's  lines  "To  a  Dandelion" 

AMONG  the  works  of  man  whatever  is  accu- 
rately planned  and  exquisitely  made  is  costly,  and 
therefore  uncommon.  We  are  apt  to  think  that 
the  same  rule  holds  in  Nature,  and  that  it  is  only 
the  rare  things  which  are  marvellous  in  design  and 
in  construction.  But  in  Nature  it  is  the  com- 
monest things  which  are  the  most  wonderfully 
made.  They  are  common  just  because  they  are 
so  nicely  adapted  to  the  conditions  of  their  lives 
that  they  are  able  to  starve  down  and  crowd  out 
rivals  which  are  not  so  well  equipped  for  the 
battle  of  existence.  Hothouses  and  horticultural 
exhibitions  can  show  nothing  more  wonderful  than 

some  vagabond  and  outcast  weeds.     A  plant  which 

36 


Dandelions  37 

has  been  fighting  the  gardeners  for  many  genera- 
tions has  naturally  developed  more  fertility  of  re- 
source than  has  its  aristocratic  relation  which  the 
gardeners  cosset  and  coddle.  The  gamin  of  the 
slums  can  take  care  of  himself  and  of  his  little 
sister,  too,  at  an  age  when  a  rich  man's  son  would 
not  be  trusted  out  of  his  nurse's  sight. 

The  dandelion  is  a  gamin  of  the  fields,  sunny- 
faced,  uncared  for,  and  getting  but  a  rough  life  of 
it  amid  cold  spring  rains  and  east  winds.  Like 
the  human  gamin  it  must  look  out  for  number 
one  in  adverse  circumstances,  and  therefore  Mother 
Nature  expended  much  ingenuity  on  the  outfit  of 
this  humble  plant  before  she  sent  it  forth  into  a 
hostile  world. 

The  dandelion  gets  its  name  not  from  the 
golden  blossom,  with  its  sweet  promise  of  spring's 
return,  but  from  the  foliage.  The  word  is  a  cor- 
ruption of  the  French  dent  de  lion  (lion's  tooth), 
and  refers  to  the  jagged  edges  of  the  leaves. 

Taraxicum  is  the  plant's  botanic  cognomen,  and 
the  nauseous  medicine  of  the  same  name  is  ex- 
tracted from  the  root.  The  same  bitter  principle 
is  in  leaves  and  stalks,  but  our  Irish  citizens 
extract  the  nauseous  taste  by  long,  gentle  boiling, 
and  make  of  dandelion  leaves  a  wholesome  and 


38     Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

not  unpalatable  spinach.  It  is  not  an  uncommon 
sight  in  spring  to  see  some  native  of  green  Erin 
equipped  with  a  bag  or  basket  and  a  big  knife, 
gathering  tender  dandelion  tops,  destined  to  fur- 
nish forth  the  frugal  dinner.  Our  Hibernian  friends 
thus  circumvent  Nature,  and  upset  all  her  plans, 
for  the  dandelions  were  filled  with  bitter  juice 
expressly  in  order  that  they  should  not  be  eaten. 
The  precaution  works  well  as  far  as  gnawing  rab- 
bits and  moles  or  hungry  caterpillars  are  con- 
cerned, for  we  never  find  dandelion  roots  bitten 
by  rodents  or  tunnelled  by  grubs,  and  dandelion 
leaves  are  never  eaten  into  holes  such  as  disfigure 
the  succulent  foliage  of  the  rose.  Moreover,  the 
plant  enjoys  this  immunity  just  at  a  time  when 
vegetable  food  is  scarce,  and  the  few  plants  which 
have  ventured  up  are  overwhelmed  with  attention 
from  everything  that  is  abroad,  vegetarian  and 
hungry.  Man  is  the  only  animal  who  cooks  his 
food,  and  owing  to  this  accomplishment  his  bill 
of  fare  is  far  more  extensive  than  that  of  his 
neighbors  in  feathers  and  fur,  who  take  things  as 
they  find  them. 

If  we  pick  one  of  the  golden  dandelion  flowers, 
we  find  that  the  stem  is  a  hollow  column,  and 
this  structure,  as  every  engineer  knows,  combines 


Dandelions  39 

the  strictest  economy  of  material  with  the  utmost 
strength.  This  contrivance  enables  the  stem  to 
uphold  the  proportionately  large  and  heavy  flower, 
in  spite  of  all  the  onslaughts  of  March  winds. 
"  Flower,"  we  have  said,  but  the  dandelion  is 
really  a  community  of  blossoms.  It  belongs  to  the 
order  of  Compositae,  a  large  and  mixed  family, 
which  numbers  among  its  members  such  flower 
plebeians  as  the  burdock,  groundsel,  and  ragweed, 
and  on  the  other  hand  includes  that  flower-aristo- 
crat, the  dishevelled  and  expensive  chrysanthemum. 

For  all  these  flowers  have  this  peculiarity — that 
what  looks  like  one  blossom  proves  on  examina- 
tion to  be  a  whole  floral  mass-meeting. 

They  furnish  an  object-lesson  on  the  evils  of 
"individualism,"  and  on  the  advantages  to  be 
gained  by  cooperation.  The  single  flowers  of  the 
dandelion  are  not  larger  around  than  small  pins. 
If  each  were  anti-social,  and  grew  upon  an  inde- 
pendent stalk,  in  lonely  dignity,  they  would  attract 
no  attention  from  the  passing  insect.  But  the 
yellow  florets  do  not  mean  to  be  neglected,  so 
they  crowd  compactly  together,  and  by  joining 
decorative  forces  they  make  quite  a  brave  show 
in  the  (as  yet)  colorless  world.  There  are  from 
one  to  two  hundred  tiny  blossoms  in  a  single 


4o     Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

dandelion.  Each  is  like  a  slender,  hollow  staff  of 
silver,  surmounted  by  a  little  flag  of  gold.  The 
yellow  banner  finishes  in  a  row  of  neat  little 
scallops,  and  from  this  decoration  we  can  infer  a 
chapter  in  the  flower's  history. 

Once  upon  a  time  the  tiny  blossom  was  com- 
posed of  five  leaves  or  petals,  one  for  each  of 
these  scallops.  After  a  while,  for  good  and  suffi- 
cient reasons  doubtless,  the  little  leaves  combined 
into  a  tube,  marked  with  five  seams,  or  lines  of 
union.  Later  still  it  was  found  that  the  blos- 
som's purposes  would  be  better  furthered  if  the 
tube  were  split  open.  So  it  has  altered  itself 
into  a  little  flag,  which  answers  somewhat  the  same 
purpose  as  does  the  red  banner  of  the  auctioneer. 
It  advises  the  passing  insect  that  certain  goods 
can  be  obtained  here  in  exchange  for  value  re- 
ceived. Inside  the  floret  stands  a  close  ring  of 
stamens  with  their  heads  or  anthers  united  so  as 
to  form  a  long,  narrow  tube.  The  anthers  open 
towards  the  centre  of  the  flower,  so  that  this  tube 
is  soon  filled  with  pollen. 

The  pistil  matures  a  little  later  than  the  stamens 
do-.  It  is  long  and  narrow,  and  is  divided  at  its 
summit  into  two  arms,  which  at  first  are  raised 
upright  and  closely  pressed  together  (Fig.  4).  In 


Dandelions 


FIG.  4. — Florets  and  fruits  of  the  dandelion. 


42      Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

this  position  each  little  arm  covers  the  sticky  inner 
surface  of  the  other,  so  that  no  grain  of  pollen 
can  be  dropped  between  them,  and  only  these  inner 
surfaces  are  receptive  to  the  pollen's  vitalizing 
touch.  On  the  outer  surface  of  the  pistil,  espe- 
cially towards  its  tip,  are  short,  scattered  hairs 
pointing  upward.  As  the  growth  of  the  pistil 
carries  it  up  through  the  anther- ring,  these  hairs 
collect  the  pollen  which  remains  clinging  to  the 
outside  of  the  pistil  after  its  full  growth  is  at- 
tained. Now  the  pistil  projects  far  above  the 
anther-ring  and  corolla,  so  that  the  pollen  which 
covers  its  surface  can  scarcely  fail  to  be  brushed 
off  upon  the  body  of  any  visiting  insect  (Fig.  4,  a). 
And  the  dandelion  is  a  general  favorite,  almost 
certain  of  a  run  of  company.  The  honey  is  very 
abundant,  and  rises  high  in  the  little  tubes,  and 
this  feast  is  offered  at  a  time  when  nectar  is  scarce 
in  the  chill  and  windy  world.  Ninety-three  species 
of  insect  have  been  observed  by  Miiller  paying 
their  attentions  to  the  dandelion. 

After  a  while,  when  most  of  the  home-made  pol- 
len has  been  carried  away  by  insects  the  arms  of 
the  pistil  bend  downward,  till  they  are  in  the 
position  of  the  crosspieces  of  the  letter  T  (Fig. 
4,  b\  Now  their  sticky  or  stigmatic  surfaces  are 


Dandelions  43 

extended  to  touch  the  insect  as  he  flits  by,  pollen 
freighted.  But  if  no  winged  wayfarer  comes  along, 
the  arms  of  the  "pistil  bend  downward  still 
further,  and  as  the  flower  grows  older  they  curl 
backward  like  the  horns  of  a  ram  (Fig.  4,  c). 

Coiled  up  in  this  way  the  sticky  inner  surface 
of  each  little  arm  is  brought  into  contact  at  several 
points  with  its  outer  surface.  And  on  the  outer 
surface  there  will  probably  be  pollen-grains  brought 
from  other  florets  by  the  same  enterprising  insects 
which  carried  off  the  golden  store  of  this  one. 
So  the  Dandelion  pistils  help  to  gather  pollen  for 
themselves,  and  can  supplement  the  good  offices  of 
flies  and  bees. 

The  very  first  dandelions  are  apt  to  appear  in 
the  bleak  days  of  early  spring,  which  are  not 
tempting  to  insect-rovers,  so  that  they  may  receive 
no  visitors  at  all.  In  that  case  the  little  florets 
make  shift  to  do  without  them.  The  arms  of  the 
pistil  when  they  curve  downward  will  come  into 
contact  with  the  sweeping  hairs  still  covered  with 
the  pollen  from  the  anther-tube.  And  this  will  be 
turned  to  account  to  meet  the  needs  of  the  case, 
for  the  dandelion  floret  can,  at  a  pinch,  set  its  seed 
by  means  of  its  own  pollen. 

Many    flowers,    especially    many     spring    flowers, 


44     Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

droop,  and  thus  save  their  treasures  of  pollen  and 
honey  from  being  injured  by  rain  and  dew.  But 
the  dandelion  florets  stare  straight  at  the  sky,  and 
they  come  at  a  very  rainy  season.  If  Nature  took 
no  preventive  measures,  the  gold  and  silver  tubes 
would  speedily  resolve  themselves  into  little  water- 
jars;  pollen  and  honey  would  be  spoiled  or  washed 
away  altogether,  and  the  insect  when  he  called 
would  get  nothing  but  disappointment.  But  the 
little  blossoms  are  so  constituted  that  during  rainy 
weather  and  at  night  they  close  completely,  and 
thus  all  their  treasures  are  preserved.  Before  the 
dew  begins  to  fall  the  dandelions  in  the  grass 
seem  to  vanish.  The  florets  in  each  yellow  head 
are  sleeping,  and  tucked  into  bed,  too,  for  a  ring 
of  little  leaves  (botanists  call  it  an  involucre)  which 
surrounds  the  mass  of  tiny  blossoms  has  bent  over 
so  as  to  enclose  and  enfold  them. 

The  dandelions  seem  to  have  turned  to  buds 
again,  and  in  their  green  outer  covering  they  are 
undistinguishable  from  the  surrounding  grass  and 
leaves.  Their  night's  rest  is  a  long  one.  They 
rarely  awaken  before  seven  o'clock,  even  on  a  sun- 
shiny morning,  and  they  close  about  five  in  the 
evening. 

An    involucre    is   present    in   all   the   members    of 


Dandelions  45 

the  great  composite  family.  It  serves  as  a  public 
calyx,  rilling  for  the  floral  cooperative  society  many 
duties  which  are  filled  by  the  calyces  of  solitary 
blossoms. 

It  shelters  the  florets  in  their  infancy,  it  helps 
to  guard  their  nectar  from  crawling  thieves,  and, 
in  many  species,  it  screens  their  pollen  from  the 
rain,  and  encloses  and  cradles  them  at  night.  The 
calyces  thus  "  thrown  out  of  their  jobs,"  are  placed 
in  a  position  somewhat  akin  to  that  of  a  com- 
munity of  work-people,  whose  many  individual  tasks 
have  been  taken  up  and  synthetized  by  some 
piece  of  labor-saving  machinery. 

They  must  learn  some  new  way  of  making  them- 
selves useful,  or  they  will  perish — following  a  gen- 
eral law  of  all  disused  organs. 

So  throughout  the  great  family  of  composite 
flowers  we  find  the  calyx  of  the  floret  so  modi- 
fied as  to  help  in  the  great  work  of  plant  dis- 
tribution (Fig.  5).  In  the  bur-marigold  it  is  con- 
verted into  barbed  prongs,  which  fasten  onto  the 
passer-by,  and  force  him  to  aid  the  plans  of  the 
parent  plant  for  placing  its  offspring  in  life.  In 
the  dandelion  and  in  some  of  its  cousins  the  calyx 
is  so  modified  that  by  means  of  it  the  wind  is 
forced  to  act  as  a  sower.  Below  each  dandelion 


46     Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 


floret  is  a  little  oval,  white  body,  which  is  the 
baby  fruit,  and  around  each  floret  a  circle  of  silky 
hairs,  the  reminiscence  of  an  ancestral  calyx.  After 
the  yellow  corolla  has  withered  away,  these  hairs 


Groundsel  calyx,  altered  into 
down.  (From  the  Vegetable 
World) 


Bur-marigold  calyx,  Orange  hawkweed 
altered  into  prongs.  calyx,  altered  into 
(From  Yearbook,  bristles.  (From  Year- 
Department  of  book,  Department  of 
Agriculture,  1896.)  Agriculture,  1896.) 


FIG.  5. — Some  altered  calyces  of  composite  flowers. 

remain  at  the  post  of  duty,  for  they  have  still  a 
task  to  fulfil  in  the  plant's  economy.  They  are 
to  aid  the  wind  in  distributing  the  little  dry  fruits 
— not  seeds — which  develop  after  the  disappearance 
of  the  yellow  florets. 

For  the  word  "fruit"  to  the  public  at  large 
suggests  a  juicy  edible,  with  a  rich  or  delicate 
color,  and  with,  generally,  a  pleasant  taste.  But 
"  fruit  "  to  the  botanist  means  whatever  comes  as 
the  normal  result  of  the  fertilization  of  a  flower. 
It  may  be  a  tiny  brown  object  unadorned,  desic- 
cated, and  quite  destitute  of  gastronomic  interest. 
The  little  freights  of  the  dandelion  blow-aways, 


Dandelions  47 

being  each  the  developed  and  ripened  seed-case 
or  "  ovary"  of  a  fertilized  floret,  are  fruits. 

The  feathery  balls  of  ripe  dandelion  fruits  are 
frequently  in  requisition  among  children  anxious 
11  to  find  out  what  time  it  is."  Hence  it  is, 
perhaps,  that  dandelions  have  been  nicknamed 
"  peasant's-clocks  "  and  "  blow-balls."  The  shaven 
and  shorn  aspect  of  the  remnant,  after  the  winged 
fruits  have  departed,  has  suggested  two  other  local 
English  names  for  the  flower,  "monk's-head" 
and  "  priest's-crown." 

The  tip  of  each  young  fruit  elongates  into  a 
slender  beak,  raising  the  tuft  of  hairs,  which  are 
laid  together,  side  by  side,  like  the  ribs  of  a  closed 
umbrella  (Fig.  4,  d).  But  when  the  fruit  is  ripe  the 
hairs  bend  downward  and  assume  the  position  of 
the  ribs  of  an  open  umbrella  (Fig.  4,  e).  Thus  the 
fruits  become  provided  with  a  silken  parachute 
apiece,  and  are  ready  to  fly  on  the  wings  of  the 
wind  and  sow  themselves  far  and  wide.  They 
will  not  drop  beside  the  parent  plant  into  soil 
which  has  been  drained  of  the  substances  which 
are  particularly  necessary  and  wholesome  to  dan- 
delions. They  will  emigrate,  flying  on  gauzy  wings 
to  "  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new." 

Each  fruit,  let  us  notice,   is  roughened  with  little 


48     Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

thorny  projections;  so  if  the  "blow-away"  ends 
its  flight  against  any  moving  object  with  a  rough 
surface,  the  coat  of  an  animal,  for  instance,  or  the 
clothing  of  a  traveller,  the  attached  fruit  will  catch 
and  cling,  and  thus  be  carried  still  further  from  its 
starting  point. 

These  methods  of  pushing  the  family  fortunes 
have  proved  so  successful  in  the  past  that  the 
dandelion  is  now  distributed  as  a  weed  in  all 
civilized  parts  of  the  world. 

So  Nature  has  cared  for  the  gamin  of  the  fields. 
How  could  the  queenliest  orchid  be  better  cared 
for  by  the  most  scientific  gardener  of  them  all  ? 


CHAPTER    III 
IN   APRIL  WEATHER 

There  is  no  summer  fulness  in  the  winds, — 

Only  the  dreamy  stirring  of  the  dawn, — 
When  sweet,  ecstatic  spring  awakes  and  finds 
The  winter  gone. — C.  B.  Going. 

IN  earlier  April  the  country  is  apt  to  look  as  if 
spring  had  "  struck"  it  in  patches.  As  the  sub- 
urban resident  rides  from  home  to  business  through 
field,  orchard,  and  woodland,  he  sees  here  a  pasture 
as  green  as  it  will  be  in  June,  with  a  group  of 
willows  or  poplars  already  burgeoned  out  into 
spring  decorations;  there  a  patch  of  the  later  forest 
trees,  as  unawakened  as  they  were  in  midwinter. 

The  first  evidence  of  awakening  life,  given  by 
the  woods  and  copses,  is  the  appearance  of  the 
blossoms  on  the  boughs.  The  tender  foliage  does 
not  issue  from  the  bud  till  later.  For  divers  and 
sufficient  reasons  it  is  the  habit  of  most  trees  to 
produce  their  flowers  before  their  leaves,  and  the 
expanding  buds  of  earliest  spring  are  almost  in- 
variably flower-buds. 

49 


50     Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

The    swamp    or   pussy-willow    often    blossoms    in 
later  March,   braving  high  winds  and  leaden  skies. 

The  red  maple  and  the  poplar  bloom  at  about 
the  same  time,  and  the  sugar-maple  a  little  later. 
By  later  April,  in  ordinary  seasons,  the  young 
seeds  of  the  poplar  are  formed,  and  dangle  from 
the  branches  in  long,  green  clusters,  so  many  and 
so  dense  that  they  impart  their  color  to  the  tree. 
The  elms,  too,  finish  flowering  betimes,  and 
cover  themselves  with  young  seed-pods,  which  hang 
in  bunches  from  the  boughs  and  twigs 
(Fig.  6).  They  are  thin  and  flat  and 
of  a  vivid,  tender  green,  and  will  be 
mistaken  by  nine  observers  out  of  ten 
for  expanding  leaves.  The  real  leaves 
meantime  are  finishing  out  their  win- 

FIG.    6.— Fruit 
of  the  elm.     ter's    nap    inside    the    leaf-buds,  which 

(From  the  Vege- 
table World.)  jM1  ,,  ii  1 

are  still   very  small   and    show  scarcely 
a  tinge  of  green. 

In  the  country  west  of  the  Alleghanies  the 
silver  poplar  or  "abele"  (Populus  Alba)  is  one  of 
the  most  familiar  trees  and  one  of  the  first  to 
respond  to  the  wooing  of  the  south  wind  and  the 
sun.  Its  flower-buds  are  covered  with  shining 
brown  scales,  which  split  apart,  in  latter  March  or 
early  April,  and  show  rifts  of  gleaming  gray. 


In  April  Weather  5 1 

After  a  few  gentle  showers  and  a  few  days  of 
sunshine,  these  brown  spring  parcels  open  wide 
enough  to  show  us  what  Mother  Nature  has  been 
hiding  there.  And  before  one  has  realized  what 
is  happening  some  of  the  trees  are  covered  with 
woolly  dangles,  soft  and  gray  as  goslings  which 
have  just  chipped  the  shell.  Looking  closely  at 
one  of  these  we  see  that  it  is  a  close  chain  of 
scales,  each  clear  and  brown  as  a  bit  of  tortoise- 
shell,  and  each  bordered  with  a  silvery  fringe. 

Under  each  scale  is  a  bunch  of  stamens  which, 
when  they  first  appear,  are  shrimp-pink,  so  that 
the  whole  dangle,  closely  examined,  is  a  lovely 
harmony  of  soft  color.  But  on  the  poplars  which 
bear  such  catkins  as  these  there  are  no  pistils 
at  all,  and  there  will  be  no  seeds  later  in  the 
year. 

On  other  poplars,  meantime,  the  pistil-bearing 
flower-buds,  which  hold  the  seed  that  is  to  be, 
are  opening.  Their  contents  are  at  first  much  less 
attractive  to  the  eye  than  are  the  soft  dangles  of 
pink  and  silver  which  issue  from  the  staminate 
buds. 

Each  pistillate  bud  consists  of  about  six  brown 
scales,  which  presently  separate,  and  let  out  into 
the  April  weather  an  humble  green  catkin  about 


52      Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

half  an  inch  long,  composed  of  many  hairy,  green 
pistils,  each  partially  covered  with  a  scale. 

These  scales,  like  those  on  the  far  prettier 
staminate  catkin,  are  fringed  with  silky  hairs,  and 
have  been  making  themselves  very  useful  earlier 
in  the  season. 

Now  they  are  separated  by  the  lengthening  of 
the  catkin,  but  in  the  bud  they  lay  so  close 
together  as  to  overlap,  and  their  fringes  made  a 
soft,  warm  fur,  which  protected  the  young  stamens 
or  pistils  from  the  frost. 

The  pistillate  tassels  of  the  poplar  grow  in 
clusters,  usually  on  the  tips  of  the  branches  and 
twigs.  In  this  position  of  vantage  each  green  pistil 
waits  for  the  breeze  to  bring  it  pollen  from  the 
catkins  of  the  stamen-bearing  trees.  As  soon  as 
the  vitalizing  dust  is  received  the  pistils  begin  to 
grow.  In  a  few  days,  if  the  weather  is  bright 
and  breezy,  the  insignificance  of  their  earliest 
youth  is  a  thing  of  the  past. 

The  tassels  lengthen,  and  become  so  vividly 
green  that  they  are  noticeable  not  only  on  the 
branches,  but  in  the  landscape.  In  the  yet  color- 
less world  the  trees  stand  forth  clothed  all  in  liv- 
ing green,  as  if  they  had  burst  into  luxuriant  leaf. 
But  the  leaves  are  still  fast  asleep,  and  tucked 


In  April  Weather  53 

tightly  away  in  little  silvery  buds.  What  appears 
to  be  foliage  is  innumerable  seed-pods,  hanging 
from  the  branches  in  countless  chains.  Later 
these  pods  will  split  open,  and  give  to  the  spring 
breezes  a  great  number  of  minute  seeds,  winged 
with  cottony  down.  In  localities  where  the  white 
poplars  abound,  these  seeds  are  sometimes  shed  in 
such  numbers  that  they  lie  in  sheltered  places, 
blown  into  light  heaps  like  the  first  snow  before  a 
November  gale. 

The  blossoms  of  the  elm  appear  in  great  pro- 
fusion in  latter  March  or  early  April.  They  grow 
huddled  together  in  bunches,  are  of  a  delicate 
green,  and  are  often  mistaken  for  unfolding  leaves. 
The  buds  whence  they  issue  are  dark-colored  and 
large,  and  are  scattered  closely  along  the  sides  of 
the  twigs,  but  seldom  borne  on  the  tips.  Every 
one  of  these  big  buds  is  covered  with  a  few  brown 
scales,  which  separate  in  early  spring,  and  let  out 
into  the  sun  ten  or  twelve  slender  stalks,  each 
supporting  a  shallow  green  cup  with  a  rim  of 
golden-brown.  Each  cup  is  a  flower,  always  pretty 
when  one  looks  at  it  closely,  and  sometimes  as 
perfect  as  the  stateliest  tulip.  For  it  may  con- 
tain from  four  to  nine  stamens,  and  in  their  midst 
a  green,  flat,  heart-shaped  pistil,  forking  into  two 


54     Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

feathery  prongs.  But  almost  every  cluster  contains 
some  flowers  which  have  no  pistils  at  all — only 
stamens.  These  have  no  use  for  their  pollen  at 
home,  and  will  send  it  all  out  into  the  world. 
Sir  John  Lubbock  says  it  flies  on  the  wings  of 
the  wind.  Another  excellent  authority  reckons  the 
elm-blossom  among  honey-bearing  flowers,  and  says 
its  pollen  travels  on  the  bodies  of  early-roving 
flies  and  bees. 

Probably  both  authorities  are  right,  and  the 
habits  of  the  trees  are  even  now  undergoing  a 
change.  It  may  be  that  the  elms,  which  are 
gradually  learning  to  bear  stamens  and  pistils  in 
separate  flowers,  are  also,  by  slow  degrees,  dis- 
pensing with  the  services  of  that  wasteful  pollen- 
carrier,  the  wind,  and  learning  to  utilize  those  safer 
and  surer  messengers,  flying  insects.  In  some 
future  day  they  may  reach  the  condition  of  the 
red  maples,  which  are  almost  wholly  dependent 
upon  insect  ministrations. 

All  the  earliest  tree-blossoms,  poplar,  swamp- 
willow,  elm,  and  red  maple,  come  out  of  buds 
which  contain  flowers  only.  On  the  trees  which 
bear  them  are  other  buds  from  which  the  foliage 
expands  later.  But  some  buds  contain  both  foliage 
and  flowers.  The  great  horse-chestnut  buds,  those 


In  April  Weather 


55 


of  the  pear-tree,  and  those  of  the  buckeye,  let  out 
into  the  sun  a  whole  cluster  of  leaves,  surround- 
ing a  pyramid  or  bunch  of  buds.  Mother  Nature's 
spring  parcels  are 
coming  undone, 
and  we  see,  with 
astonishment,  how 
much  they  have 
held.  Their  open- 
ing is  as  surpris- 
ing as  the  un- 
packing of  that 
hat  from  which 


a 


FIG.  7. — fa)  Sleeping  and  (b]  expanding  buds  of  the  horse-chestnut. 
(From  the  Vegetable  World.) 

the  conjurer  draws  enough  articles  to  fill  a  Sara- 
toga trunk.  The  horse-chestnut  buds,  in  latter 
March,  are  no  bigger  than  thimbles,  yet  from 


56     Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

them  issue  in  April  weather  four,  or  even  six, 
broad,  fan-like  leaves,  surrounding  a  cone-shaped 
cluster  of  flowers  (Fig.  7). 

When  the  young  leaves  first  begin  to  expand 
we  can  see  the  folding  creases  in  them,  and  thus 
get  an  idea  how  they  were  packed  into  the  very 
small  spaces  which  they  occupied  all  winter.  We 
see  that  maple  and  currant  leaves  have  been 
plaited  like  fans.  Those  of  the  cherry  and  oak 
have  been  folded  lengthwise  down  the  middle,  so 
that  their  sides  come  together  like  the  covers  of  a 
closed  book.  The  circular  May-apple  leaves  (Frontis- 
piece) have  been  folded  back  against  their  stalks, 
like  closed  umbrellas,  and  will  open  just  as  umbrellas 
do.  Plum-leaves  have  been  rolled  from  one  edge 
toward  the  other,  as  one  rolls  sheets  of  music. 
Some  of  the  tender  young  leaves  are  clothed  or 
surrounded  with  vegetable  down.  This  is  the 
blanketing  which  Nature  provided  to  prevent  them 
from  being  "winter-killed."  The  horse-chestnut 
leaves  have  been  particularly  well  protected,  and 
from  seeing  them  so  snugly  wrapped  we  infer  that 
this  tree's  ancestors  lived  in  the  north,  where 
winters  were  long  and  severe.  Its  cousin,  the 
buckeye,  is  a  fair  southerner,  and  the  young  buck- 
eye leaves  are  unprovided  with  coverings  of  vege- 


In  April  Weather  57 

table  wool,  which,  in  a  mild  climate,  are  unneces- 
sary. 

But  we  must  not  infer  that  every  unprotected 
bud  found  in  northern  woods  is  borne  on  a  vege- 
table stray  from  a  milder  climate.  A  few  northern 
plants  have  become  so  thoroughly  case-hardened  to 
winter  and  rough  weather  that  they  have  dispensed 
with  protective  bud-wrappings.  Like  some  intrepid 
folk  of  our  acquaintance  they  get  through  the  cold 
season  without  an  overcoat,  or  independent  of  furs 
and  flannels. 

The  winter  buds  of  the  blackberry  are  protected 
only  by  a  few  thin  scales,  often  too  short  to  cover 
the  tips  of  the  young  leaves  within.  Four,  or  at 
most  six,  soft  scales  have  defended  the  elder  leaves 
and  the  clustered  blossom-buds  from  last  winter's 
frost.  The  tender  foliage  of  the  "  wayfaring- 
tree"  or  "  hobble-bush "  has  had  no  protection 
save  a  coating  of  scurf,  and  with  this  scant  cloth- 
ing it  can  survive  a  Maine  winter.  But  as  a  rule, 
when  naked  buds  occur  in  our  climate  they  are 
small,  and  during  winter  they  lie  in  hiding,  sunk 
into  the  bark  or  even  partly  buried  in  the  wood. 

The  scales  which  enclose  most  native  buds  are 
imperfect  leaves,  detailed  to  do  guard  duty. 
Through  the  winter  they  have  been  wrapped 


58      Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 


closely  around    the  baby  foliage  to  protect  it  from 
rotting      damp,      and      from     sudden 
changes  of  temperature.      Now  their 
work    is    done,    and    in    a    few    days 
they    will    fall  off,    or    shrivel    away, 
leaving  scars  upon  the  twigs  to  mark 
the    place    where    they 
grew.     The  traces  left 
by    fallen 
bud  -  scales 
look  as  if  a 

string  had  been  wound  with 
the  utmost  tightness  around 
the  branch,  so  as  to  encircle 
it  four  or  five  times,  and 
had  remained  long  enough 
to  cut  into  the  bark  (Fig.  8). 
By  counting  these  marks 
one  can  tell  how  many  years 
a  branch  is  old.  After  a 
while,  by  the  peeling  away 
of  the  outermost  layers  of 
bark,  the  scars  upon  it  dis- 
appear. In  the  Willow  we 

FIG.  8. — Apple  twig,  showing 

old  bud-scale  marks.       can    scarcely    find     them    at 
any   stage   of    the    branches'    growth,  as    the    bud- 


In  April  Weather  59 

scales  are  too  small  to  leave  well-defined  marks. 
But  in  maples  and  horse-chestnuts  the  marks 
of  the  bud-scales  of  vanished  springs  are  easily 
seen.  The  spaces  between  them  vary  from  one 
inch  to  six  or  eight,  for  growth  differs  in  differ- 
ent years,  in  different  trees,  or  in  different  branches 
of  the  same  tree,  according  to  the  humidity  and 
heat  of  the  season,  the  richness  of  the  soil,  or  the 
inherent  vigor  of  the  individual. 

At  the  very  heart  of  each  bud  which  tips  a 
bough  or  twig  is  the  "  apex  of  growth,"  a  group 
of  generative  cells  on  whose  strength  and  activity 
the  prolongation  of  the  branch  depends.  The  ex- 
tension of  the  bough  for  the  season  is  over  and 
done  at  a  comparatively  early  period.  In  many 
trees  it  is  completed  a  month  after  the  first  little 
leaves  unfold. 

By  mid-July  even  the  most  procrastinating  of 
trees  and  shrubs  have  made  the  growth  of  the 
year,  and  formed  next  season's  buds.  Their  sub- 
sequent efforts  are  devoted  to  perfecting  and 
strengthening  the  young  parts,  and  to  laying  by  a 
store  of  nourishment  against  the  needs  of  another 
spring. 

A  leaf-bud  is  generally  formed  just  above  the 
foot-stalk  of  a  leaf.  On  a  very  young  branch  the 


60     Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

twigs  spring  from  the  places  whence  leaves  fell  in 
bygone  autumns.  But  some  of  these  twigs  will 
be  snapped  off  by  gales,  or  blighted  by  insects, 
and  some  will  be  starved  and  crowded  out  by 
more  vigorous  neighboring  twigs.  In  early  spring 
many  leaf-buds  of  forest-trees  are  eaten  by  squir- 
rels, which  have  waked  up  hungry  after  their  long 
winter's  nap,  and  find  that  the  world  as  yet  con- 
tains little  provender  for  them.  And  as  every  one 
of  these  devoured  buds  is  a  potential  branch,  their 
taking-off  will  affect  the  shape  of  the  trees  in 
years  to  come. 

So  from  various  causes  the  trees  of  the  wood 
do  not  show  that  symmetry  in  the  positions  of 
their  boughs  which  we  admire  in  the  arrangement 
of  their  leaves.  Indeed,  the  branching  of  a  full- 
grown  tree  bears  little  relation  to  the  positions  of 
the  buds  from  which  those  branches  sprang. 

The  symmetry  of  the  adult  shrub  or  tree  is 
further  marred  by  the  occasional  development  of 
what  are  called  "supernumerary"  or  "accessory" 
buds.  These  are  found  especially  on  low- 
growing  plants,  likely  to  be  browsed  upon  by 
cattle. 

When  a  leaf  drops  off  the  bramble,  for  instance, 
it  leaves  a  group  of  buds,  a  larger  one  in  the 


In  April  Weather  61 

centre  with  one,  or,  it  may  be,  two  smaller  ones 
on  either  side. 

These  are  understudies,  as  it  were,  to  the  mid- 
dle bud,  ready  to  take  up  its  work  in  the  world 
if  it  be  killed  or  disabled.  Normally  it  grows  and 
they  remain  quiescent.  But  it  may  be  that  one  of 
the  side  buds  is  the  strongest  of  the  group  and 
lives  down  all  its  fellows.  It  is  a  question  of 
survival  of  the  fittest. 

The  common  .locust  has  several  "  accessory 
buds"  under  the  leaf-stalk,  and  a  principal  bud  in 
the  scar  left  by  the  leaf  of  last  summer.  This 
axillary  bud  may  be  overtaken  in  growth  by  the 
strongest  one  in  the  group  below  it,  so  that  in 
years  to  come  the  tree  will  have  two  branches 
almost  together. 

In  the  poplar,  elm,  and  willow  extra  buds  are 
potentially  present  in  the  bark,  and  will  develop  in 
numbers  if  the  tree  is  maimed.  Such  buds  and 
growths  are  called  "  adventitious,"  and  have  no 
relation  whatever  to  the  ordinary  position  of  the 
leaves.  Those  of  the  elm  sometimes  appear  on 
the  trunk  in  dense  tufts  of  whip-like  branches. 

The  basket-makers  turn  the  willow's  ability  to 
produce  adventitious  buds  to  excellent  account. 
They  cut  off  the  crown  of  the  tree,  and  the  ends 


62      Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

of  its  principal  branches,  and  there  results  an  out- 
growth of  the  tough,  lithe  osiers  from  which  baskets 
and  chair-seats  are  woven. 

The  willow  is  about  the  first  of  our  native 
trees  to  put  forth  foliage.  The  elm,  ash,  and  oak 
— canny  northerners  all — are  late,  and  their  leafing 
has  given  rise  to  some  quaint  rural  sayings.  The 
peasantry  of  the  old  world  have  been  accustomed 
from  time  immemorial  to  arrange  their  farming 
pursuits  according  to  indications  given  by  certain 
trees  and  flowers.  "  The  leafing  of  the  elm," 
says  Thistleton  Dyer,  "  has  for  generations  been 
made  to  regulate  agricultural  doings,  and  hence  the 
old  rule: 

*  When  the  elmen-leaf  is  as  big  as  a  mouse's  ear, 
Then  to  sow  barley  never  fear.'  " 

With  which  may  be  compared  another  piece  of 
weather-lore : 

"Whenthe  oak  puts  on  his  gosling  gray, 
Tis  time  to  sow  barley  night  or  day." 

The  oak  and  the  ash  come  into  leaf  almost 
together,  and  rural  folk  used  to  watch  the  trees 
to  find  out  whether  the  coming  summer  would  be 
a  rainy  or  a  dry  one. 

"  If  the  oak  is  out  before  the  ash, 
'Twill  be  a  summer  of  wet  and  splash ; 


In  April  Weather  63 

If  the  ash  is  before  the  oak, 

'Twill  be  a  summer  of  fire  and  smoke," 

says  an  old   piece   of  weather-lore. 

Nourishing  gums  and  starches  are  stored  away 
all  winter  in  the  tree-trunks  and  branches,  and 
toward  spring  they  feel  their  way  along  the  least 
twigs  and  into  the  buds  where  life  has  begun  to 
stir. 

The  store  of  nourishment  which  sustains  this 
year's  expanding  foliage  was  collected  last  summer 
by  the  leaves  which  have  now  rotted  away  under 
the  winter  rains,  or  drifted  into  sheltered  hollows, 
where  they  lie,  withered  and  sere. 

When  this  year's  leaves  have  attained  full 
strength  and  maturity,  they  in  their  turn  will 
gather  food  which  is  to  be  put  by,  not  for  them- 
selves, but  for  those  which  come  after  them.  So 
some  labor  and  others  enter  into  the  fruits  of 
their  labor,  not  only  among  humanity,  but  even  in 
the  vegetable  world.  And  so  the  great  lesson  of 
Easter-tide,  the  lesson  of  self-sacrifice,  is  suggested 
by  the  story  of  the  awakening  April  woods. 


CHAPTER    IV 
THE   FLOWERING   OF  THE    FOREST-TREES 

"And  now  in  age  I  bud  again, 

After  so  many  deaths  I  live  and  write; 
I  once  more  smell  the  dew  and  rain, 
And  relish  versing.     O  my  Only  Light, 
It  cannot  be 
That  I  am  he 
On  whom  Thy  tempests  fell  all  night." 

— George  Herbert. 

THE  veteran  oak,  which  has  weathered  many 
gales,  is  the  time-honored  symbol  of  hardihood. 
The  flowers  which  bloom  between  its  mighty  roots 
have  served  rhetoricians,  since  the  memory  of  man 
goeth  not  to  the  contrary,  as  symbols  of  tender 
grace  and  helpless,  evanescent  prettiness.  So  the 
idea  of  the  forest-trees  themselves  bourgeoning 
forth  into  blossoms  is  to  the  unbotanical  public 
almost  a  contradiction  in  terms,  perhaps  even  in- 
volving a  trace  of  absurdity,  as  if  some  war-worn 
veteran  were  to  take  his  walks  abroad  with  a  knot 
of  ribbons  at  his  throat,  and  a  lace-trimmed  para- 
sol forming  a  background  to  his  weather-beaten 

visage. 

64 


The  Flowering  of  the  Forest  Trees      65 

Nevertheless,  all  the  forest-trees  bloom.  After 
the  long,  bitter  December  nights,  and  after  the 
beating  tempests  of  the  equinox,  they,  too,  like 
dear,  quaint  George  Herbert,  "  bud  again."  They 
respond  fully  to  the  call  of  spring,  and  break  forth 
not  only  into  tender  leaf,  but  into  blossom, 
too. 

But  the  floral  efforts  of  the  trees  receive  little 
attention  from  the  public  at  large.  Their  flowers 
are,  as  a  rule,  small,  green,  and  inconspicuous,  and 
appearing,  as  they  do,  just  when  we  are  looking 
for  the  bursting  of  the  leaf-buds,  they  are  often 
mistaken,  by  the  casual  observer,  for  half-unfolded 
leaves;  and  they  are  often  almost  inaccessible, 
growing  on  the  swaying  tops  of  upper  branches. 

Even  when  one  gathers  these  tree-blossoms,  and 
examines  them  closely,  few  of  them  are  found  to 
look  at  all  like  flowers,  as  that  term  is  "  under- 
standed  of  the  people."  For  "a  flower"  to  the 
laity  means  a  cluster  of  delicate  or  brilliant  little 
leaves,  generally  conspicuous,  and  often  fragrant. 
But  "a  flower"  to  the  botanist  may  mean  a 
bunch  of  tiny  greenish  or  brownish  threads,  insig- 
nificant-looking and  odorless. 

Few  of  the  blossoms  borne  by  the  forest-trees 
have  either  petals  or  fragrance. 


66      Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

Many  sorts  are  what  botanists  call  '*  naked," 
having  neither  calyx  nor  corolla. 

Many  sorts  are  also  what  botanists  call  "  im- 
perfect,"— that  is,  having  either  stamens  and  no 
pistils,  or  else  pistils  and  no  stamens. 

One  flower  may  be  a  pistil  or  cluster  of  pistils, 
surrounded  by  a  few  scales,  and  its  "affinity"  is 
a  bunch  of  stamens  and  a  scale  or  two;  and  these 
two  incomplete  blossoms  may  grow,  not  only  on 
separate  branches,  but  in  separate  trees. 

As  these  forest-tree  flowers  have,  generally  speak- 
ing, neither  bright  colors,  nor  honey,  nor  fragrance, 
we  surmise  that  their  messenger  is  the  wind, 
which  blows  when  and  where  it  lists,  and  is  not 
to  be  coaxed  by  the  methods  which  "take"  with 
insects. 

And  because  the  wind  is  their  go-between,  these 
blossoms  appear,  sometimes  before  the  leaves  issue 
from  the  buds,  and  almost  always  before  they 
expand,  for  foliage  would  be  seriously  in  the  way 
of  pollen  as  it  flew  from  bough  to  bough  or  from 
tree  to  tree.  The  stamens  are  borne  in  long, 
drooping  dangles  or  "  catkins,"  which  sway  with 
the  lightest  breath,  so  that  the  pollen  is  shaken 
out  even  by  the  faintest  zephyrs  of  a  spring  day. 

The  pollen  of   most  forest-trees  is  light  and  dry, 


FIG.  9. — Blossoms  of  the  Butternut  ( Juglans  cinerea}. 


The  Flowering  of  the  Forest  Trees      69 

so  that  spring  breezes  can  easily  detach  it  from 
the  stamens  and  carry  it  fast  and  far. 

And  their  stigmas  are  more  or  less  branched  and 
hairy,  so  that  they  can  readily  catch  the  pollen  as 
it  flies  by. 

By  time  the  tender  leaves  are  large  enough  to 
cast  their  shadows  on  the  ground,  the  pollen 
messages  of  the  trees  have  been  delivered  by  the 
wind,  and  the  precious  seed  is  set  (Fig.  9). 

The  walnut,  butternut,  hickory,  oak,  beech,  hazel- 
nut,  and  ironwood  trees  are  all  what  botanists  call 
"  monoecious."  That  is  to  say,  their  stamens  and 
pistils  are  borne  on  the  same  tree,  though  not  in 
the  same  blossom.  The  stamens  of  all  these  trees 
grow  in  little,  close  clusters,  which  are  dotted,  like 
rosary  beads,  all  down  the  length  of  a  slender, 
pendulous  cord.  Each  stamen  cluster  is  partly 
covered  by  a  scale  or  hood,  which  in  a  measure 
prevents  the  pollen  from  being  washed  away  by 
spring  rains. 

On  the  walnut,  two  or  three  of  these  stamen- 
chains  come  out  of  one  bud;  on  the  oak,  six  or 
seven  issue  from  a  single  ring  of  bud-scales  (Fig. 
10).  Indeed,  as  a  rule  these  dangles,  which  are 
each  and  every  one  a  whole  community  of  asso- 
ciated stamens,  grow  in  family  groups,  so  that  the 


yo     Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 


FIG.  10. — Blossoms  of  the  oak. 
a,  pistillate  ;  £,  staminate. 


The  Flowering  of  the  Forest  Trees      7 1 l 

idea  of  fraternity  and  cooperation  is  carried  through- 
out. 

But  the  pistillate  flowers  of  the  forest-trees  are 
less  gregarious.  They  grow  singly,  or  in  small, 
compact  clusters,  which  almost  invariably  terminate 
the  branches  and  tip  the  twigs,  so  that  they  are 
in  the  best  possible  position  to  catch  some  of  the 
wind-blown  pollen  as  it  flies  by.  Those  of  the 
walnut,  "  pig-nut,"  and  hickory  are  bright-green, 
like  the  unfolding  foliage.  At  the  heart  of  each 
is  a  single  pistil,  forking  into  two  plume-like  heads, 
which  look  downy,  but  prove  unexpectedly  solid  to 
the  touch.  The  pistil  plumes  of  the  butternut 
are  dull-red,  and  might  easily  be  mistaken  for  a 
pair  of  unfolding  baby-leaves  (Fig.  11). 

The  pistillate  flower,  or  little  nut,  of  the  beech 
tree  is  one  green  ovary,  capped  with  three  thread- 
like styles,  and  walled  about  with  scales  which  will 
become  the  bur  of  the  nut  one  of  these  days. 
The  young  acorn  is  a  three-celled  ovary  (and 
thereby  hangs  a  tale),  containing  the  first  begin- 
nings of  six  seeds,  and  capped  by  a  stigma  which 
forks  into  three.  Around  its  base  is  a  little  scaly 
covering,  the  acorn-cup  that  is  to  be. 

The  embryo  nuts  of  the  walnut,  butternut, 
hickory,  and  beech,  and  the  baby-acorns,  appear 


72      Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

on    this  year's    new   wood.      The   buds    from   which 
they    have    issued     tipped    the    branches    and    con- 


FIG.  IT. — Details  of  the  blossoming  butternut. 

«,  a  cluster  of  pistillate  flowers  ;   ^,  one  stamen  bearing  scale  detached  from 
the  staminate  flower-chain  ;  c,  a  single  stamen.     (All  magnified.) 


tained,   besides  the  pistillate  flowers,   a   few   of    this 
year's  tender  leaves.      The   staminate    flowers    in  all 


The  Flowering  of  the  Forest  Trees      7) 

these  trees  issue  from  other  buds,  which  grow  lower 
on  the  boughs,  on  the  old  wood  of  last  year. 

But  in  all  these  trees  we  notice  that  the  pen- 
dulous chains  of  stamens  are  more  numerous  on 
the  upper  branches  and  the  pistil-bearing  flowers 
grow  more  plentifully  on  the  lower  boughs.  So 
the  swing  of  the  tree-tops  in  spring  winds  helps 
to  shake  the  pollen  out  of  the  stamens,  and  the 
natural  falling  of  the  golden  grains  helps  them  to 
find  their  way  to  the  waiting  pistils. 

The  seedlings  of  these  trees  may  have  but  one 
plant-parent  apiece,  and  every  healthy  and  mature 
tree  of  these  species  yields  seed. 

The  poplars,  as  we  have  seen,  conduct  their 
affairs  after  a  different  fashion,  and  so  do  the 
willows,  their  nearest  of  kin.  They  bear  stamens 
on  one  tree,  and  pistils  on  another.  Each  seed- 
ling-poplar or  willow  has  had  two  tree-parents, 
and  only  certain  individuals  among  the  poplars 
and  willows  yield  seed. 

But  some  spring-flowering  trees  are  apparently 
in  a  curious  state  of  indecision  and  transition. 
Their  habits  are  described  by  the  technical  botanist 
as  "  monceciously  "  or  "  diceciously  "  polygamous. 

Sometimes  their  blossoms  contain  both  stamens 
and  pistils,  sometime-s  they  have  only  stamens  and 


74      Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

devote  all  their  energies  to  the  production  of 
pollen,  and  sometimes  they  have  only  a  pistil  or 
pistils,  and  attempt  nothing  else  except  the  per- 
fecting of  their  own  seed. 

The  perfect  blossoms  which  bear  both  stamens 
and  pistils  may  live  in  a  household  of  staminate 
brother-flowers,  or  in  a  household  of  pistillate 
sister-flowers,  or  all  three  sorts  of  blossoms  may 
grow  together  on  one  tree. 

The  red  maple  and  the  elm  among  early-flower- 
ing trees,  and  the  holly,  prickly-ash,  and  hackberry 
among  the  later  trees,  are  thus  unsystematic  in 
their  mode  of  conducting  their  affairs. 

Their  seedlings  are  born  by  the  crossing  of  two 
flowers,  or  by  the  crossing  of  two  trees,  as  cir- 
cumstances may  determine. 

The  seedling  born  of  two  flowers  has  a  double 
advantage  over  the  one  which  springs  from  a  seed 
set  by  aid  of  pollen  from  the  flower  in  which  it 
grew.  The  offspring  of  two  flower-parents  is  the 
stronger,  and  also  the  readier  to  accommodate 
itself  to  change  in  its  circumstances  and  surround- 
ings. It  is  therefore  likely  to  live  to  maturity, 
and  to  bear  many  flowers,  which  will  take  after 
their  "  forbears"  in  a  decided  inclination  to  pro- 
duce pollen  in  one  blossom  and  seeds  in  another. 


The  Flowering  of  the  Forest  Trees       75 

The  seedling  born  of  two  plant-parents  is  even 
stronger  and  more  adaptable  than  the  one  born  of 
two  flower-parents,  and  in  the  struggle  for  exist- 
ence it  is  the  likeliest  of  the  three  to  survive. 
And  its  plant-children  will  follow  the  parental  habit 
of  setting  seed  by  aid  of  pollen  brought  from 
another  plant.  So  age  by  age  the  "dioecious" 
flowers  have  been  separating  their  stamens  and 
pistils  more  and  more  widely,  and  if  the  world 
lasts  long  enough  the  elms  and  red  maples  may 
reach  the  condition  of  the  willows  and  poplars, 
with  all  the  stamens  borne  on  one  tree,  and  all 
the  pistils  on  another. 

In  Nature's  school,  elms  and  red  maples  seem 
to  occupy  an  intermediate  class  with  the  walnuts 
and  hickories  below  them,  and  the  willows  and 
poplars  above. 

The  white-ash  trees,  which  blossom  in  latter 
March  or  early  April,  are  somewhat  unsettled  in 
their  habits.  Like  the  elms,  they  use  both  breezes 
and  insects  as  pollen-carriers,  and  they  have  gen- 
erally, but  not  entirely,  adopted  that  plan  of  bear- 
ing stamens  and  pistils  in  separate  flowers,  which 
has  become  a  fixed  rule  among  the  poplars. 

The  staminate  flower-buds  of  the  ash  are  very 
noticeable  in  earliest  spring,  when  they  are  inky- 


76     Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

black,  as  Tennyson,  that  close  observer  of  Nature, 
knew,  for  beautiful  Judith  in  his  "  Gardener's 
Daughter"  had  hair  "  blacker  than  ash-buds  in 
the  front  of  March"  (Fig.  12). 

Under   the    purplish-black    wrappings   which    en- 
close    these     spring     parcels,    there     is 
brown    wool,   which    has    protected    the 
bud's  contents  from  wintry  blasts,   and 
under    this     blanketing    we     shall     find 
stamens    innumerable,    but,  as    a    rule, 
stamens  only.       These    are    minute    at 
first,  but  they  begin  to  stretch  as    soon 
Fig.  12  —Buds  as      t^ie     bursting     of    the     black     case 
(F°rfomhtheaF^-  sets    them     free,   and    soon  the   stamen 

table  World.) 

cluster  becomes  a  conspicuous  greenish- 
purple  plume,  branching  freely,  and  composed  of 
many  long  anthers  on  slender  filaments.  Towards 
the  end  of  April  these  stamen-plumes  fall,  having 
shed  all  their  pollen,  and  on  the  trees  which  have 
borne  them  seeds  are  not  to  be  expected.  For 
the  pistils  of  most  of  the  ashes  grow  on  separate 
trees,  in  green,  branching  bunches,  and  by  the  time 
the  leaves  unfold  each  pistil  will  have  developed 
into  a  winged  fruit. 

But  the  April  aspect  of  the  common  or  "  white  " 
ash    hints    to    us   that    once    upon    a    time   ash-trees 


The  Flowering  of  the  Forest  Trees      77 

bore  both  stamens  and  fruits.  For  here  and  there 
on  the  boughs  of  this  species  a  pistil  can  be 
found  standing  between  two  stamens.  The  modest 
trio  attract  no  attention,  by  color,  petals,  or  fra- 
grance. Yet  the  technical  botanist  calls  the  little 
group  "  a  perfect  flower,"  and  the  evolutionary 
botanist  sees  in  it  an  indication  that  once  all 
ash-flowers  contained  both  stamens  and  pistil  and 
each  tree  was  sufficient  to  itself. 


FIG.  13. — Perfect  (a),  staminate  (£),  and  pistillate  (c)  flowers  of 
the  European  ash  (Fraxinus  excelsior}.     (All  magnified.) 

The  European  ash,  frequently  cultivated  in  parks 
and  gardens,  is  an  individualist  even  to  this  day. 
Parted  from  all  its  kind  by  leagues  of  sea,  like 
Crusoe  on  his  island,  it  could  take  entire  charge 
of  its  own  affairs  and  carry  them  to  a  successful 
conclusion.  The  stamens  and  pistils  are  borne 
always  on  the  same  tree,  and  often  in  the  same 
flower  (Fig.  13), 


78      Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

But  in  all  our  native  species,  except  the  white 
ash,  the  future  of  the  race  depends  upon  the  mu- 
tual helpfulness  of  the  present  generation.  The 
stamen-bearing  trees,  which  yield  no  seed,  exist 
entirely  for  the  benefit  of  the  family.  And  the 
pistil-bearing  trees,  which  are  the  hope  of  the 
race,  cannot  accomplish  their  task  without  help 
from  their  neighbors.  The  trees  are  learning  co- 
operation, just  as  individuals  do  in  a  society 
which  is  emerging  from  savagery  toward  civiliza- 
tion. 

The  horse-chestnut  blossoms  also  cooperate. 
The  pyramidal  bunch  of  bloom  is  not  a  crowd  of 
individuals  each  self-contained  and  self-sufficient. 
It  is  more  like  the  ant  and  bee  communities,  in 
which  each  individual  has  duties  to  be  performed 
for  the  good  of  all. 

Most  of  the  white  blossoms,  flecked  with  rose 
or  gold,  have  no  individual  future.  Their  pros- 
pects are  sunk  for  the  public  good.  They  have 
no  pistils  and  will  ripen  no  seed. 

Their  prettiness  is  merely  a  lure  to  attract 
some  flying  insect  to  the  spire  of  bloom.  She 
will  carry  away  their  pollen,  for  which  they  can 
receive  no  return  in  kind,  as  they  have  no  stig- 
mas and  can  set  no  seed.  And  having  been  en- 


The  Flowering  of  the  Forest  Trees      79 

ticed  to  the  boughs  by  them,  and  bearing  their 
powdered  gold  on  her  body,  she  will  visit  some 
sister-flower,  which  is  in  botanical  language  "  per- 
fect," and  from  which  will  develop,  later,  the 
horse-chestnut  bur. 

On  the  blooming  spire  there  are  scores  of  flow- 
ers, but  if  we  look  at  the  branch  again,  in  later 
summer,  we  will  see  that  only  six  or  eight  of 
them  have  set  their  seed.  The  rest  have  per- 
ished, as  the  worker-ants  do,  leaving  no  descend- 
ants; the  only  memento  of  their  lives  will  be  the 
work  done  for  the  community  into  which  they 
were  born. 

The  perfect  blossoms  of  the  horse-chestnut  grow 
near  the  base  of  the  spire  of  bloom.  Their  friend, 
the  bee,  works  from  the  ground  upward,  and  all 
the  bee-flowers,  which  grow  in  spikes  or  bunches, 
have  adapted  themselves  to  this  habit  of  their 
favorite  messenger. 

When  she  comes  to  a  branch  of  horse-chestnut 
blossoms  she  is  probably  already  dusted  with  pol- 
len from  another  cluster.  With  this  she  flies  to 
the  lowest  flowers  of  the  spire,  which  are  pistil- 
bearing,  and  therefore  want  pollen  and  have  a  use 
for  it.  Then,  rising  into  the  top  of  the  spire,  she 
takes  on  a  fresh  load  of  pollen  from  the  stamen- 


8o      Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

bearing  flowers  there,  and  when  she  visits  another 
spire  of  bloom  this  will  be  carried  to  its  lowest 
blossoms,  which  are  pistillate. 

Besides  the  perfectly  developed  pistil  these  lower 
flowers  bear  a  number  of  stamens  which,  accord- 
ing to  Dr.  Ogle,  never  open,  and  never  shed 
their  stores  of  pollen.  And  the  upper  flowers, 
which  nowadays  do  nothing  except  produce  pol- 
len and  make  a  brave  show,  hold  in  their  hearts 
little  green  rudiments  which  are  significant  signs 
of  abandoned  habits. 

For  each  of  these  is  a  pistil  almost  dwindled  to 
nothingness — a  reminiscence  of  the  time  when  the 
horse-chestnut  flowers  had  not  yet  learned  co- 
operation. 

The  long  stamens  of  these  topmost  flowers  have 
an  upward  curve  which  brings  their  anthers  against 
the  hairy  hinder  parts  of  their  favorite  visitor, 
the  bumble-bee.  And  when  "the  insect  flies  to 
the  lower  florets  of  the  next  spire,  the  long,  curv- 
ing pistils  touch  the  same  spot  on  her  body  and 
receive  the  pollen  they  need. 

When  the  upper  flowers  of  the  spire  have  given 
away  all  their  pollen  they  fall  and  strew  the  ground 
beneath  the  trees.  The  horse-chestnuts  are  cousins 
to  the  maples,  and  are  not  even  distantly  related 


The  Flowering  of  the  Forest  Trees      81 

to  the  chestnuts,  which  they  resemble  only  in  de- 
pendence upon  the  ministrations  of  insects  and  in 
the  custom  of  late  blooming. 

For  the  chestnuts,  too,  blossom  much  later  than 
most  of  the  forest-trees,  hanging  out  long,  pollen- 
bearing  flower-clusters,  which  are  odorous  and  con- 
spicuous to  lure  the  flies,  upon  whose  ministrations 
the  life  of  the  species  depends. 

The  heavy  scent  of  the  blossoms  is  unpleasant 
to  most  people,  but  we  are  not  the  individuals 
concerned  in  the  case.  The  faint  suggestion  of 
putridity  is  attractive  to  the  many  flies  which  hum 
around  the  branches  in  the  warm  June  sunshine. 
They  dust  their  bodies  with  pollen  from  the 
creamy  spires,  and  then  carry  the  life-giving  dust 
to  the  pistillate  flower-cluster,  which  ripens,  later, 
into  the  chestnut-bur  and  its  contents. 

The  prickly  bur  is  developed  from  a  little  circle 
of  scales  which  has  surrounded  a  pair  or  a  trio 
of  pistillate  flowers.  Each  chestnut  is  a  ripened 
ovary,  and  the  little  tail  atop  is  the  remains  of 
the  style  and  stigma. 

It  is  surmised  that  the  chestnut  flowers,  like 
those  of  the  ash-trees,  once  had  both  stamens  and 
pistils,  alike  perfect  in  development,  so  that  each 
blossom  produced  both  pollen  and  ovules.  What 


82      Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

seems  a  reminiscence  of  such  a  condition  of  things 
is  still  to  be  seen  in  the  pistil-bearing  flowers; 
for  each  has  from  five  to  twelve  '' abortive"  sta- 
mens— undeveloped  things  which  are  of  no  use  in 
the  trees'  present  domestic  economy,  but  which 
are  still  produced,  probably  from  sheer  force  of 
habit. 

We  have  seen  that  some  of  our  familiar  trees 
seem  to  be  passing  through  changes  in  the  struc- 
ture and  mode  of  fertilization  of  their  flowers. 
Others  are  even  now  diminishing  the  number  of 
their  seeds.  Nature,  keeping  up  an  age-old  habit, 
forms  a  large  number  of  germs ;  but  the  trees, 
having  adopted  a  newer  habit,  neglect  most  of 
these  germs,  and  bring  only  a  remnant  of  them  to 
maturity.  But  these  comparatively  few  offspring 
are  sent  into  the  world  better  nourished,  better 
provided  for,  better  equipped  for  the  battle  of  life 
than  they  would  have  been  had  the  parent  tree 
undertaken  the  maintenance  of  a  larger  number  of 
descendants,  and  thus  they  profit  by  the  fate  of 
their 'little  brothers  which  perished  untimely. 

The  horse-chestnut  blossom  has  a  three-celled 
ovary,  with  two  ovules  in  each  cell;  but  the  ripe 
horse-chestnut  bur  never  holds  more  than  three 
nuts,  and  sometimes  only  two,  or  even  a  solitary 


The  Flowering  of  the  Forest  Trees      83 


one.  "Yet  the  vestiges  of  the  seeds  which  have 
not  matured,"  says  Prof.  Gray,  "  and  of  the  want- 
ing cells  of  the  pod,  may  always  be  detected  in 


a 


Very  young  horse-chestnut  bur  cut  crosswise  (a)  and  lengthwise  (£),  showing  that 
it  is  at  this  stage  a  three-chambered  pod  enclosing  six  seeds. 


Very  young  acorn  cut  crosswise  (c),  showing  its  three  chambers  and  six  ovules. 
Older  acorn  cut  crosswise  (</),  showing  that  two  of  the  original  six  ovules  have 
vanished  and  that  a  third  is  dwindling. 

Fig.  14. — Young  horse-chestnut  bur  and  young  acorhs. 

the  ripe  pod."  The  very  young  acorn  is  divided 
into  three  compartments,  and  each  compartment 
has  two  ovules  hanging  from  its  summit.  One 
might,  therefore,  expect  the  mature  acorn  to  be  a 


84      Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

husk  enclosing  six  small  nuts  or  seeds.  But,  in 
fact,  five  of  the  cells  are  all  but  obliterated  in  the 
forming  fruit,  which  thus  becomes  one-celled  and 
one-seeded. 

But  if  we  strip  the  shell  off  a  mature  acorn  we 
can  generally  see  near  its  base  three  irregular 
lobes,  which  are  a  reminiscence  of  the  three 
chambers  of  the  young  ovary. 

And  between  these  lobes  are  the  last  vestiges 
of  the  partitions  which  once  completely  trisected 
the  baby-acorn. 

The  pistil  of  the  maple  blossom  is  a  double  af- 
fair, with  two  styles,  two  stigmas,  two  ovaries, 
and  four  ovules,  two  in  each  ovary;  but  the 
winged  twin-fruit  which  results  from  its  develop- 
ment contains  but  two  seeds  (Fig.  15). 

It  is  not  unusual  for  atrophy  to  go  still  further 
and  for  one-half  of  the  double  fruit  to  stop  grow- 
ing very  early  in  the  season,  so  that  in  the  end 
the  fruit  turns  out  to  be  an  unsymmetrical  thing, 
with  one  side  swelled  into  firmer  and  plumper  pro- 
portions, because  nourishment  has  been  withheld 
from  the  other. 

In  the  acorns  and  horse-chestnuts  which  come 
to  maturity,  the  baby-plant  is  supplied  with  a 
particularly  rich  and  plentiful  stock  of  starches  on 


The  Flowering  of  the  Forest  Trees      85 

which  to  feed  while  it  does  its  first  growing,  and 
it  is  protected  from  damp  and  from  insect  enemies 
by  a  tough,  horny  shell.  The  maple  germ  is  also 
provided  with  sustenance  for  its  first  days  of  life, 
is  wrapped  in  a  strong  covering,  and  is  provided 
with  a  wing,  so  that  it  can  fly  far  before  the  au- 
tumn gales.  When  the  descendants  of  these  trees 


FIG.  15.— Twinned  fruit  of  the  maple 
(From  the  Vegetable  World) 

are  so  well  started,  a  large  proportion  of  them 
will  survive,  and  thus  the  oak,  horse-chestnut,  and 
maple  families  are  quite  as  well  kept  up  as  are 
the  families  of  other  trees,  which  cast  to  the  winds 
a  large  number  of  seeds  less  fully  equipped  for  the 
battle  of  existence. 

For   when  a  plant,    in    shiftless  and    stepmotherly 
fashion,   hands  its    offspring    over  to    those  untender 


86     Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

nurses,  luck  and  chance,  it  follows  that  an  enor- 
mous proportion  of  the  offspring  will  die. 

By  investigating  the  blossoms  of  the  oak,  horse- 
chestnut,  and  maple,  we  see  that  these  trees,  ages 
ago,  bore  very  many  seeds,  which  must  have  re- 
ceived but  a  scant  provision  apiece  wherewith  to 
start  themselves  in  life.  Under  these  circumstances, 
the  majority  of  the  seedlings  would  die  young,  giv- 
ing the  parent-plant  the  expense  of  putting  an 
enormous  family  out  into  the  world,  and  all  to  lit- 
tle purpose.  To-day,  evolution  is  teaching  them 
"  a  more  excellent  way.  " 

"It  is  a  fatal  habit,"  says  Grant  Allen,  "to 
picture  evolution  to  one's  self  as  a  closed  chapter. 
We  should  think  of  it  rather  as  a  chapter  that 
goes  on  writing  itself  for  ever.  Our  fields  are  full 
of  degenerate  flowers  which  retain  some  memorial 
of  their  old  estate,  pointing  backward,  like  the 
fasces  of  the  Byzantine  emperors,  to  the  past 
glories  of  their  race  in  earlier  times."  They  are 
also  full  of  plants  which  bear  somewhere  about 
them  half-obliterated  traces  which  tell  the  story  of 
their  progress  from  a  lower  to  a  higher  form  of 
life. 


CHAPTER   V 
GREEN    LEAVES   AT   WORK 

"  Between  the  budding  and  the  falling  leaf, 
Stretch  happy  skies, 
With  colors  and  sweet  cries, 
Of  mating  birds  in  uplands  and  in  glades. 
The  world  is  rife."—  T.  J3.  Aldrich. 

WHEN  spring,  long  waited  for,  has  come  indeed, 
and  young  leaves  are  unfolding  in  May  sunshine, 
we  find  the  ground  beneath  the  branches  strewed 
with  half-transparent  green  or  brownish  scales.  In 
city  parks  they  litter  the  asphalt  walks,  and  drift 
along  their  edges  into  little  heaps. 

They  are  bud-scales,  whose  day .  of  usefulness 
is  over.  They  have  braved  all  the  rigors  of 
storm  and  frost,  while,  folded  safe  within  them, 
lay  the  foliage  of  the  coming  summer,  destined  to 
expand  in  tender  colors  under  happy  skies. 

But  the  bud-scales  seldom  have  any  beauty, 
save  the  beauty  of  fitness. 

They    and    the    sleeping    life    which    they    enfold 

87 


88      Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

together  constitute  the  winter  bud.  It  contains 
very  little  water  in  its  tissues,  and  so  can  with- 
stand low  temperatures  without  freezing. 

The  bud-scales  live  in  a  chill  and  sombre  world, 
and  when  the  sky  is  blue  and  full  of  light  they 
fall  and  perish  in  the  heart  of  spring. 

Yet,  they  are  themselves  imperfectly-formed  and 
partially-developed  leaves.  Under  certain  excep- 
tional circumstances  they  have  shown  their  possi- 
bilities, and  developed  into  typical  leaves.  And 
under  most  circumstances  there  is  in  them  the 
arrested  power  to  become  like  the  green  foliage  of 
summer. 

Stunted,  as  they  are,  these  scales  have  done 
work  which  perfect  leaves  could  never  do.  Their 
horny  substance  has  shed  the  cold  rains  of  winter, 
resisted  the  frost,  and  protected  the  tips  and 
shoots  in  which  the  life  of  the  branches  lay  dor- 
mant. 

We  owe  to  the  bud-scales  most  of  the  beauty 
of  the  summer  world.  Their  highest  usefulness 
has  been  attained  through  sacrifice  of  their  com- 
plete development.  Now  their  brief  lives  of 
service  are  ended,  and  as  they  fall  the  summer 
leaves  unfold. 

As   soon   as  these  new   leaves  have  stretched  and 


Green  Leaves  at  Work  89 

shaken  themselves  after  their  long  winter  sleep, 
they  set  to  work,  for,  fair  though  they  are,  beauty 
is  not  their  sole  excuse  for  being,  and  there  is 
plenty  for  them  all  to  do  in  Nature's  great  gar- 
den. 

Through  every  leaf  there  runs  a  network  of 
delicate  woody  threads,  curving,  branching,  and  in- 
terlacing. 

Its  ramifications  continue  beyond  the  limits  of 
unaided  vision.  We  call  it  the  "  skeleton,"  and 
it  does  fulfil  an  office  similar  to  that  of  the  bones 
in  the  human  frame,  for  it  supports  the  leaf  and 
gives  it  shape  and  strength. 

But  it  also  serves  the  leaf  as  veins  and  arteries 
serve  the  body,  for  the  life-giving  sap  creeps 
through  these  woody  threads  in  slow  but  continu- 
ous circulation. 

With  the  aid  of  a  powerful  microscope  we  can 
see  that  the  green  pulp  of  the  leaf  looks  some- 
what like  a  honeycomb,  as  it  consists  of  number- 
less cells  laid  row  above  row.  Those  on  the 
upper  side  of  the  leaf  are  generally  long  and 
narrow,  and  stand  upright,  pressing  together  al- 
most as  closely  as  the  bricks  in  the  side  of  a 
house  (Fig.  16). 

But    the    lower    leaf    cells  differ    greatly  one  from 


90     Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

another  in  shape  and  size,  and  they  are  laid  to- 
gether loosely,  like  the  boulders  in  those  gray 
walls  which  separate  New  England  pastures. 

In  this  lower  leaf-tissue  there  are  generally  a 
number  of  irregular  cavities  or  air-spaces. 

Each  separate  leaf-cell  is  a  little  bag  of  delicate, 
transparent  skin,  filled  with  colorless  jelly. 


FIG.  16. — Magnified  section  of  the  green  tissue  of  a  leaf. 

(From  the  Vegetable  World.) 

This  jelly  is  protoplasm,  which  Huxley  has 
called  "the  physical  basis  of  life."  The  living 
creature,  animal  or  plant,  is  largely  built  of  it. 
Science  teaches  that  its  chemical  composition  is 
closely  akin  to  that  of  the  white  of  an  egg,  and 
that  its  elements  are  oxygen,  hydrogen,  carbon, 
nitrogen,  phosphorus,  and  sulphur. 

But  the  proportions  of  these  ingredients  vary 
almost  from  moment  to  moment,  and  with  them 


Green  Leaves  at  Work  91 

are  mingled  various  accidental  substances  in  vary- 
ing proportions.  For  while  the  plant  or  animal 
lives  new  tissue  is  always  being  built  up  or  old 
and  waste  tissue  is  being  resolved  into  its  ele- 
ments and  cast  out  of  the  body.  This  unceasing 
work  is  accompanied  by  unceasing  changes  in  the 
protoplasm,  which  makes  up  the  bulk  of  the  liv- 
ing creature,  and  when  death  puts  an  end  to  these 
forms  of  activity  decomposition  sets  in,  and  the 
protoplasm  begins  to  change  again.  So  the  exact 
proportions  in  which  six  lifeless  substances  are 
blended  in  order  to  make  the  "  basis  of  life"  can 
never  be  accurately  known,  and  the  jelly  which 
fills  the  cells  of  the  summer  leaves  is  one  of  the 
great  mysteries  of  the  physical  world. 

Because  they  are  forever  changing  protoplasm 
and  its  chemical  allies  are  called  "  proteids." 

When  protoplasm,  existing  alone,  or  mingled 
with  other  substances,  is  surrounded  by  a  wall,  we 
call  the  little  bag  and  its  contents  a  "cell."  But 
the  living  jelly  is  the  chief  part  of  the  combina- 
tion. The  wall  which  encloses  it  is  of  secondary 
importance,  and  is  sometimes  dispensed  with  alto- 
gether, for  the  Nature-student  makes  the  ac- 
quaintance of  cells,  so  called,  which  are  merely 
little  naked  masses  of  protoplasm. 


92      Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

So  "cell"  is  regarded  as  a  sad  misnomer  for 
the  minute  particles  of  living  substance  which 
build  up  the  animal  or  plant  body,  and  some 
modern  scientists  are  striving  to  get  rid  of  it. 

The  name  was  chosen,  in  the  first  place,  by  a 
microscopist  who  looked  through  his  lenses  at  a 
bit  of  cork,  and  found  that  it  was  made  up  of 
plates  of  thin  tissue,  meeting  one  another  at  right 
angles  and  enclosing  empty  chambers.  He 
thought  that  the  walls  were  the  important  part 
of  the  combination,  as  indeed  they  were  in  this 
particular  case,  so  he  called  the  tissue  ''cellular" 
and  its  component  parts  he  named  "cells." 

Modern  science  teaches  that  in  most  cases  the 
cell-wall  is  as  subordinate  to  the  cell-contents  as  a 
picture-frame  is  to  the  picture  it  encloses,  and 
also  that  the  living  units  which  go  to  build  up 
a  plant  or  animal  have  a  special  form  for  each 
kind  of  tissue,  so  that  "cells,"  far  from  being  uni- 
formly square,  or  uniformly  six-sided,  as  their 
name  might  lead  us  to  expect,  assume  shapes  of 
almost  infinite  variety.  But  the  old,  misleading 
name  is  still  in  use,  mainly  because  no  one  has  yet 
been  able  to  think  of  a  satisfactory  substitute  for  it. 

In  the  jelly  which  fills  the  leaf-cells  there  are 
floating  specks  of  green,  so  vivid  in  color,  and  so 


Green  Leaves  at  Work  93 

numerous,  as  to  give  their  hue  to  the  whole  leaf. 
These  specks  are  chlorophyll  bodies,  and  they  are 
the  cause  of  the  rich  and  tender  green  in  summer 
fields  and  woodlands. 

The  closely-packed  tissue  of  the  upper  side  of 
the  leaf  contains  many  cells,  and  hence  many 
chlorophyll  bodies. 

But  Nature  has  not  economized  space  in  the 
arrangement  of  the  lower  leaf-cells, — and  where 
cells  are  comparatively  scarce  chlorophyll  is  scarce 
also.  Hence,  the  under  surfaces  of  leaves  are  often 
pale  in  hue. 

Chlorophyll  is  formed  only  under  the  direct  light 
of  the  sun.  Tender  young  leaves,  which  have 
been  shut  up  under  bud-scales  in  the  dark,  con- 
tain as  yet  but  few  of  the  useful  little  green 
grains.  The  sun  has  not  yet  given  them  their 
working  outfit,  so  expanding  foliage  is  seldom  really 
green.  The  budding  oaks  are  of  a  warm  reddish- 
brown  or  gosling-gray,  according  to  their  species. 
The  new  leaves  of  the  poplars  are  silvery,  and 
those  of  the  willows  are  almost  golden. 

Even  the  vegetable  garden,  when  things  are  be- 
ginning to  wake  there,  is  a  symphony  of  delicate 
color.  The  very  smallest  carrot-leaves  are  yellow 
or  golden  brown. 


94     Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

The  asparagus,  when  it  makes  its  d£but,  is  of  a 
bluish  or  purplish  color,  and  the  sprouting  beets 
are  of  a  rich  Tyrian  red,  too  sumptuous  for  such 
plebeians. 

But  as  soon  as  the  leaves  come  out  into  the 
sunlight,  chlorophyll  begins  to  form  in  them,  and 
they  grow  greener  and  greener. 

In  some  of  the  smaller  fresh-water  algae  the 
chlorophyll  bodies  are  flattened  plates  of  very  dis- 
tinctive and  beautiful  forms  (Fig.  17).  But  those 
which  color  the  leaves  of  the  wood  are  generally 
disk-shaped  or  oval,  and  are  often  called  "  grains" 
of  chlorophyll. 

Whatever  its  shape,  the  chlorophyll  body  consists 
of  two  substances,  the  green  coloring-matter  itself, 
and  a  small,  dense,  jelly-like  mass  which  holds  it. 

If  a  leaf  is  put  into  alcohol  the  spirit  draws 
the  coloring-matter  out  of  the  chlorophyll  bodies, 
and  the  leaf  gradually  becomes  pallid  while  the 
liquor  in  which  it  flows  shows  a  deepening  tinge  of 
green. 

Now  if  we  examine  a  piece  of  the  leaf  tissue 
with  a  powerful  microscope  we  shall  see  that  the 
chlorophyll  bodies  are  still  there,  and  are  un- 
changed in  form  and  size,  but  the  green  pigment 
which  tinted  them  is  gone. 


Green  Leaves  at  Work 


95 


In  autumn,  Nature  withdraws  the  coloring-matter 
from  the  chlorophyll  bodies,  and  at  last  the  bodies 
themselves  disintegrate,  so  that  by  time  the  leaf 


a 


FIG.  17. — Some  common  fresh-water  algse.     (Much  magnified.) 

a,  Zygnema,  with  two  star-shaped  chlorophyll  bodies  in  each  cell ;  b,  Mougeotia, 
with  a  single  oblong  chlorophyll  body  in  each  cell;  r,  Spirogyra,  with  chloro- 
phyll bodies  in  the  form  of  spiral  bands. 

falls    nothing    is    left    of    them    but    a    few    yellow 
granules. 

When  a  plant  which  has  been  growing  in  the 
light  is  subjected  to  continued  darkness,  the  green 
pigment  fades  out  of  the  chlorophyll  bodies  so 
that  they  become  pallid,  and  finally  white.  Event- 
ually the  little  disks  or  ovals  themselves  disorgan-. 


96      Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

ize  and  disappear,  and  then  the  hapless  plant  be- 
gins to  starve  to  death. 

For  the  office  of  chlorophyll  in  the  vegetable 
economy  is  digestion.  By  its  action  lifeless  gases 
and  lifeless  mineral-matter  are  changed  into  living 
vegetable  tissue. 

Green  is  essentially  the  color  of  life.  Wherever 
we  see  it  in  the  living  world  we  know  that  in- 
organic substances  are  being  changed  into  organic 
substances,  and  thus  life  is  preparing  the  material 
which  it  will  mould  into  many  forms. 

The  tissues  built  up  by  green  plants  feed  herbiv- 
orous animals,  which  in  their  turn  feed  carnivor- 
ous animals,  and  so  vegetable  life  mediates  be- 
tween the  mineral  and  the  animal  worlds. 

Organisms  which  have  no  chlorophyll  are  entirely 
dependent  for  their  food  upon  organisms  which 
have  chlorophyll.  The  living  chain  binding  the 
live  creature  to  Mother  Earth  may  have  as  many 
links  as  there  are  in  the  chain  of  phases  connect- 
ing the  "priest  all  shaven  and  shorn"  with  "the 
house  that  Jack  built."  But  always  at  the  end  of 
the  chain  we  find  a  green  plant. 

In  the  teeming  life   of   the    ocean   the  same    rule 

holds,    for    marine     flesh-eaters     feed     upon    marine 

t  vegetarians,    and    these    in    their    turn    are    fed    by 


Green  Leaves  at  Work  97 

minute  chlorophyll-bearing  seaweeds,  which  live 
near  the  surface  of  all  but  the  very  coldest  wa- 
ters, and  are  the  floating  pastures  of  the  sea. 

In  plants  which  habitually  bear  richly-colored 
leaves — in  the  copper-leaved  beech,  for  instance, 
or  the  copper-hazel — chlorophyll  bodies  are  present 
and  busy,  just  as  they  are  in  those  plants  which 
bear  green  foliage ;  but  the  leaf-sap  contains  some 
strong  pigment  which  overpowers  and  masks  the 
green.  Some  of  those  minute  plants  which  have 
a  great  and  evil  reputation  under  the  name  of 
bacteria  contain  a  purple  coloring-matter  which 
seems  able  to  fulfil  the  office  of  chlorophyll. 

By  aid  of  this  pigment  they  can  form  organic 
matter  when  they  are  exposed  to  the  light. 

A  few  other  bacteria  can  form  organic  matter 
in  the  dark,  and  unaided  by  any  pigment,  green 
or  purple. 

But  such  "  exceptions  being  excepted,"  the 
vividness  of  the  green  in  stem  or  leaf  is  in  direct 
proportion  to  the  plant's  self-helpful  activity,  for 
in  the  vegetable  world  the  very  young  and  the 
very  shiftless  are  not  green. 

But  when  a  plant  begins  to  form  habits  of 
parasitism  the  leaves  grow  dim,  and  the  more 
confirmed  these  bad  habits  become,  the  less  chlo- 


98      Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

rophyll  is  to  be  found  in  stems  and  foliage.  The 
mistletoe  is  still  of  a  dingy  or  yellowish-green, 
because  it  has  not  yet  sunk  to  the  lowest  depths 
of  shiftlessness.  It  steals  its  food  from  the  tree 
upon  which  it  grows,  but  steals  it  in  an  undi- 
gested or  half-digested  state,  and  does  its  own  di- 
gesting. The  yellow-rattle  and  the  pretty  painted- 
cup  practice  a  like  sort  of  thieving.  Their  roots 
draw  moisture  from  the  roots  of  their  next  neigh- 
bors, instead  of  taking  it  direct  from  the  soil. 
But  the  sap  thus  appropriated  cannot  be  used 
in  the  building  of  vegetable  tissue  till  it  has  been 
worked  over  in  the  leaves,  and  as  yellow-rattle 
and  painted-cup  make  use  of  their  foliage,  they 
have  retained  it. 

There  is  a  lower  depth  of  parasitism  than  this, 
in  which  the  plant  steals  digested  food  from  its 
victim.  When  this  stage  of  degradation  is  reached 
the  foliage  of  the  parasite  dwindles,  and  its  green 
color  disappears.  We  have  seven  or  eight  native 
plants  which  suck  their  food,  already  prepared, 
from  the  roots  of  herbs  and  trees.  They  are  rep- 
resentatives of  three  widely-differing  botanical 
families,  but  similarity  of  practice  has  brought 
about  among  them  a  certain  similarity  of  aspect, 
so  that  we  may  almost  say  that  there  is  a  rogue 


Green  Leaves  at  Work 


type,  even  in  the  vegetable 
world.  All  these  plants  are 
destitute  of  green  coloring- 
matter,  and  are  of  creamy 
hues,  tinged  with  purple, 
straw-color,  or  golden-brown, 
and  the  leaves  of  all  are 
mere  reminiscent  scales.  It 
is  believed  that  the  Indian- 
pipe  and  its  next  of  kin, 
popularly  known  as  pine-sap 
(Fig.  1 8),  begin  life  as  para- 
sites on  living  roots;  but,  as 
they  mature,  their  habits  un- 
dergo still  further  deteriora- 
tion, till  the  full-grown  plants 
suck  their  nourishment  from 
the  decaying  leaves  which 
carpet  the  forest.  The  In- 
dian-pipe is  entirely  white  all 
over,  and  though  it  is  own 
cousin  to  the  bonny  heather, 
its  substance  looks  like  that 
of  the  fungi,  which  stand  far 
below  it  in  the  scale  of  na- 

i  *  .  FIG.  18. — Pine-sap  (Mono- 

ture,   and   yet   share   its  tastes          tropa  Hypopity]}. 


and  bear  it  company. 


(From  Natural  History  of 
New  York.) 


ioo    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

But  green  plants  make  their  own  food.  The 
chlorophyll  which  they  contain  is  a  lure  to  catch 
the  sunbeams,  which,  when  caught,  are  set  to 
work  to  help  the  protoplasm  in  the  work  of  food- 
and  tissue-building. 

This  work  can  prosper  only  under  certain  con- 
ditions. Sunshine  must  fall  upon  the  plant,  car- 
bon dioxide  gas  must  be  mingled  with  the  air 
which  surrounds  it,  the  temperature  must  not  be 
too  low,  and  water  must  come  up  from  the  roots 
into  the  leaves  and  green  stems.  Under  these 
circumstances  food-making  goes  merrily  on. 

The  first  evident  product  of  the  plant's  industry 
is  starch.  This  is  a  much  less  complex  substance 
than  the  proteids,  for  it  contains  but  three  ele- 
ments, carbon,  hydrogen,  and  oxygen,  and  they 
are  mingled  in  accurately  known  and  unvarying 
proportions. 

The  carbon  comes  out  of  the  carbon  dioxide 
which  the  leaves  breath  in ;  the  hydrogen  is  a 
chemical  constituent  of  the  water  which  the  roots 
suck  up,  and  the  oxygen  comes  in  as  the  other 
element  of  the  water,  or  is  inhaled  from  the  at- 
mosphere by  the  green  stems  and  the  foliage. 

Some  surplus  oxygen  is  left  after  the  starch- 
making,  and  this  is  exhaled  by  the  leaves.  When 


Green  Leaves  at  Work  101 

the  sun  shines  brightly  upon  a  pool,  in  which 
pond-weeds  are  growing  lustily,  we  can  see  oxy- 
gen rising  in  bubbles  from  the  submerged  leaf- 
laboratories  to  the  surface  of  the  water. 

Oxygen-making  is  carried  on  even  more  actively 
by  the  smallest  of  the  fresh-water  algae.  These 
little  plants  are  fine  green  filaments,  which  have 
no  roots  and  float  in  tangled  bunches  near  the 
surface  of  still  and  sunny  water.  When  the 
weather  is  warm  and  bright,  the  oxygen  given 
out  by  these  little  algae  forms  great  bubbles, 
which  become  entangled  in  the  cobwebby  meshes 
and  float  the  plants  to  the  surface. 

Here  algae  and  bubbles  together  form  a  green 
scum,  which  froths  as  we  look  at  it.  One  might 
readily  suppose  that  all  manner  of  impurities  were 
festering  in  the  water,  and  that  evil  gases  and 
malaria  were  being  distributed  throughout  the 
neighborhood.  But,  as  we  learned  in  our  copy- 
book days,  "  appearances  are  deceitful." 

The  frothing  is  caused  by  one  of  the  most 
active  processes  of  constructive  life.  The  bubbles 
which  are  being  cast  up  are  life-giving  oxygen, 
which  enables  the  grass  to  grow  and  the  animal's 
heart  to  beat. 

And    the    little    algae,   so    busy    and     beneficent, 


102    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

are  seen  under  the  microscope  to  be  beautiful 
also  (Fig.  1 8). 

The  newly-made  starch  in  leaves  appears  in  tiny 
grains  inside  the  chlorophyll  bodies,  or  close  be- 
side them.  It  does  not  remain  there  and  grow 
into  larger  starch-grains,  but  with  the  withdrawal 
of  sunlight  it  seems  to  melt  away  and  disappear. 
The  starch  has  been  dissolved,  or  rather  changed, 
into  fluid  glucose,  and  this  is  gradually  drawn 
through  cell-wall  after  cell-wall  till  it  reaches  some 
actively-growing  part  of  the  plant,  where  it  is 
used  at  once,  or  some  permanent  tissue,  where  it 
is  turned  into  starch  again,  and  stored  away  to 
meet  the  needs  of  the  future. 

In  spring  all  the  starch  which  the  leaves  can 
make  is  changed  to  glucose  and  used  immedi- 
ately for  growth.  But  in  latter  summer  the  plant 
puts  it  away.  In  some  cases  the  starch  is  saved 
in  wood,  pith,  bark,  or  tubers  to  feed  next  spring's 
shoots;  in  others  it  is  packed  into  seeds,  where  it 
supports  the  plant's  children  in  their  infancy. 

If  a  tree  is  hewn  down  in  winter  the  cells  of 
its  wood  are  found  to  contain  innumerable  starch- 
grains.  When  nature  takes  her  course  these  are 
converted  into  glucose  during  the  first  warm  days 
of  spring,  and  the  pushing  buds  are  fed  with  it. 


Green  Leaves  at  Work  103 

But  even  when  man  has  interfered  with  this  pro- 
gramme the  starch-grains  are  not  without  their 
use.  They  close  the  pores  of  the  wood,  mak- 
ing it  almost  impenetrable,  and  hence  peculiarly 
adapted  to  certain  economic  uses.  "Winter- 
hewn  timber  is  almost  exclusively  employed  for 
staves,"  says  the  Scientific  American.  "With 
staves  made  from  summer-wood  the  contents  of 
the  barrel  are  subject  to  evaporation  through  the 
pores." 

The  stored-up  starch-grains  in  tubers  and  seeds 
have  very  characteristic  forms. 

Those  which  we  find  in  the  tubers  of  the  Indian- 
shot  look  like  clam-shells,  and  those  of  the 
potato  are  uneven  ovals.  Those  which  we  find 
in  grains  of  corn  are  very  small  and  angular, 
like  particles  of  sand,  and  those  of  barley, 
wheat,  and  rye  are  lens-shaped  (Fig.  19).  When 
these  starchy  roots  and  seeds  begin  to  grow  the 
starch  will  be  changed  into  fluid  glucose  and  then 
drawn  from  cell  to  cell  till  it  reaches  the  push- 
ing tips  of  stems  and  roots. 

The  water  which  ascends  from  the  roots  of  a 
growing  plant  into  its  leaves  holds  in  solution 
about  as  much  mineral  matter  as  is  contained  in 
ordinary  well-water.  The  warmth  of  the  summer 


IO4    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

air    causes    some    of    this    water    to    evaporate    from 
the    foliage.      More    comes    up    to    supply    the    loss, 


FIG.  19. — Starch-grains  of  the  potato  (a)  and  of  wheat  (b). 

(Much  magnified.) 
(From  the  Vegetable  World.} 

and    this    also    dries    out    slowly   through    the    sunlit 
hours.     As   the  water    evaporates    the    mineral  sub- 


Green  Leaves  at  Work  105 

stances  (salts)  which  have  come  up  with  it  from 
the  soil  remain  behind  in  the  leaf  cells.  These 
will  enter  into  the  composition  of  the  living  proto- 
plasm which  is  filling  the  new  cells  of  shoot  and 
root. 

Though  we  know  how  plants  make  starch,  com- 
paratively little  has  been  learned  about  the  more 
vital  process  of  protoplasm-making.  But  it  is  be- 
lieved that  in  green  plants  this  work,  too,  can  go 
on  only  in  the  presence  of  light. 

As  the  water  from  the  roots  is  to  go  directly  to 
the  leaf -laboratories,  Nature  has  taken  care  that 
the  precious  fluid  shall  not  be  wasted  on  the  way. 
So  the  trunks  and  branches  of  trees  and  shrubs 
are  wrapped  in  a  skin  of  cork,  which  prevents  the 
ascending  nutritive  water  from  evaporating.  But 
once  in  the  leaves  it  is  desirable,  in  most  cases, 
that  the  water  may  evaporate  and  give  up  its 
chemical  and  mineral  treasures.  So  the  leaf,  broad 
and  thin,  -exposes  the  largest  possible  proportion  of 
surface  to  the  light  and  air. 

Over  the  whole  leaf — veins,  cells,  and  all — there 
is  stretched  a  transparent  skin.  A  powerful  micro- 
scope shows  this  skin  to  be  itself  a  sheet  of  cells, 
often  very  irregular  in  form  and  generally  destitute 
of  chlorophyll. 


106    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

In  tropical  plants  it  is  comparatively  thick  ;  for 
were  it  not  so,  the  ardent  sun  would  soon  parch 
all  the  juices  out  of  the  foliage.  The  oleander,  in 
its  native  soil,  has  to  endure  long  droughts,  and  its 
leaves  are  provided  with  skins  four  times  as  thick 
as  those  of  some  leaves  which  grow  in  moist  cli- 
mates. But,  thick  or  thin,  the  leaf-skin  must  not 
keep  the  air  away  from  the  green  cells,  or  the 
little  chlorophyll-grains  would  get  no  carbonic  acid 
to  digest,  and  the  luckless  vegetable  would  die 
of  starvation.  Neither  must  it  totally  check  the 
evaporation  of  the  water  which  has  ascended 
from  the  roots.  So  the  leaf-skin  is  full  of  pores, 
through  which  air  and  vapor  can  pass  freely. 
To  these  openings  botanists  give  the  name  of 
"stomata"  or  ''mouths"  (Fig.  20).  They  open 
into  passages  which  are  channelled  out,  as  it  were, 
in  the  fleshy  part  of  the  leaf,  and  their  office  is 
best  described  by  the  term  transpiration.  They 
enable  the  leaves  to  breathe  out  any  moisture 
which  may  be  contained  in  them  over  and  above 
the  plant's  immediate  needs.  Thus  the  "  transpira- 
tion" of  a  plant -body  is  comparable  to  the  per- 
spiration of  an  animal  body. 

During  rainy  or  misty  weather,  when  leaves  nat- 
urally contain  more  fluid  than  they  need,  these 


Green  Leaves  at  Work 


107 


stomata  gape  open  ;  and  during  times  of  drought, 
when  it  is  desirable  that  the  plant's  fluids  shall  be 
saved,  they  close.  This  timely  opening  and  shut- 
ting is  effected  by  a  mechanism  extremely  simple, 
yet  perfect  in  its  working. 

Each    breathing    pore     is     like     a     double    door, 


FIG.  20. — A  cell  of  the  leaf-skin  and  one  stoma  of  a  fern 
(Pteris  cretica) 

whose  leaves  to  left  and  right  are  cells.  And 
these  cells,  like  their  neighbors  in  leaf-skin  and 
tissue,  become  distended  in  moist  weather,  and 
shrink  in  time  of  drought.  As  soon  as  they  be- 
come flaccid  they  collapse,  like  an  empty  pair  of 
bellows,  and  their  sides  bulge  like  the  bellows- 
leather.  This  bulging  brings  the  walls  of  the  two 


io8    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

stoma  cells  into  contact,  so  that  the  double  door  is 
shut  (Fig.  21). 

But  when  damp  weather  causes  the  cells  to  swell 
again,  they  stand  erect  and  their  sides  are  drawn 
apart.  Then  the  double  door  is  open,  and  the 


FIG.  21. — Closed  stoma  of  a  Cycas. 
(From  the  Vegetable  World.) 

superabundant  moisture  in  the  leaf  can  pass  out 
freely. 

Each  stoma  opens  into  one  of  the  spaces  in  the 
leaf-tissue. 

In  general  these  little  holes  are  irregularly 
placed,  but  on  grass-blades  and  lily-leaves  they  are 
ranged  in  long,  straight  rows.  The  number  of 
them  in  a  square  inch  of  leaf -surface  varies  from 
two  hundred  in  the  foliage  of  the  mistletoe  to  two 
hundred  thousand  in  that  of  the  lilac.  In  the 
white  lily  they  are  unusually  large,  and  easily  seen 
by  a  simple  microscope  of  moderate  power,  and 
some  one  has  had  the  patience  to  compute  that 
on  the  lower  surface  of  the  leaf  there  are  sixty 
thousand  of  these  little  breathing-pores  to  every 


Green  Leaves  at  Work  109 

square  inch.  In  land-plants  they  are  most  numer- 
ous on  the  lower  or  shadowed  side  of  the  leaf, 
where  moisture  can  not  be  drawn  through  them 
too  fast  by  the  ardent  rays  of  the  sun.  But  the 
floating  leaves  of  water-plants  have  all  their  sto- 
mata  on  their  upper  surfaces,  which  alone  come  into 
contact  with  the  air,  and  leaves  which  grow  under 
water  have  no  stomata  at  all. 

Beach  and  desert  plants  must  live  between  glar- 
ing skies  and  parching  sands.  So,  whatever  their 
more  favored  relatives  do,  these  plants  develop 
succulent  leaves.  Such  foliage  is  born  by  the  South 
African  groundsel  (Fig.  22  (i)),  which  has  so  adapted 
itself  to  circumstances  that  it  is  singularly  unlike 
the  too-familiar  groundsel  invading  our  gardens. 

The  moisture  which  fate  vouchsafes  such  plants 
must  be  treasured  for  times  of  need,  not  drawn 
speedily  away  by  high  winds  or  scorching  sun.  So 
the  stomata  in  their  leaves  are  very  few,  and  the  leaf- 
skin  is  thick  and  tough,  so  that  vapor  may  not 
exude  through  it. 

The  cactus  family  has  a  few  representatives 
which  grow  wild  as  far  north  as  Nantucket,  but 
most  of  its  members  live  in  the  hottest  situations 
in  tropic  or  semi-tropic  lands.  In  such  localities 
there  is  danger  that  the  plant's  juices  be  scorched  or 


no    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

dried  out,  and  Nature  guards  against  this  by  ex- 
posing the  least  possible  proportionate  surface  to 
the  rays  of  an  ardent  sun.  The  plant  substance, 
instead  of  being  spread  out  into  a  great  number  of 
thin,  flat  leaves,  is  collected  into  a  solid  mass,  al- 
most globular  in  some  varieties,  and  this  living 
lump  is  covered  with  a  skin,  which  is  richly  col- 
ored with  chlorophyll,  and  acts  as  one  all-enfold- 
ing leaf. 

The  real  leaves,  superseded  in  their  original 
work,  have  become  converted  into  spines  or 
prickles,  and  act  as  a  deterrent  to  vegetarian  ene- 
mies. 

A  member  of  the  widely-differing  family  of  the 
spurges,  which  lives  on  dry  ground  under  an  Af- 
rican sun,  has  adopted  like  habits.  Its  branches 
are  succulent,  spiny  prongs,  whose  surfaces  contain 
chlorophyll,  and  the  plant,  when  not  in  bloom, 
might  be  mistaken  for  one  of  the  many  varieties  of 
cactus,  while  the  exigencies  of  the  South  African 
climate  have  driven  a  native  milkweed  to  do  as 
the  cactuses  do.  In  all  three  of  these  plants  the 
vegetable  substance  is  condensed  into  a  mass,  the 
inner  tissues  are  full  of  juice,  the  bark  is  converted 
into  an  all-enfolding  leaf,  and  the  plant  body  is 
protected  from  thirsty  vegetarians  by  thorns,  hairs, 
or  prickles  (Fig.  22). 


Green  Leaves  at  Work 


in 


FIG.  22. — Four  natives  of  South  Africa. 

i,  a  groundsel  (Senechio  (Kleinia)  Ha-worthii]  ;  2,  a  typical  cactus  (Eichtnocactus 
CJormi&*    3'  a  SpUrge   (EuPh°rbia  globosa);    4,  a   milkweed  (Stafelia  cacti- 


1 12    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

Only  the  blossoms  show  that  the  plants  are  rep- 
resentatives of  four  widely-divergent  botanical  fam- 
ilies. 

Of  all  parts  of  the  plant,  the  leaf  is  most  sub- 
ject to  change,  and  the  readiest,  like  Poo  Bah,  to 
fill  all  offices  at  once. 

The  same  plant  may  bear  two  kinds,  differing  in 
form  and  in  habits. 

Some  water-plants  have  both  floating  and  sub- 
merged leaves.  The  floating  foliage  breathes  at- 
mospheric air,  and  the  submerged  foliage  lives,  as 
fishes  do,  by  breathing  the  air  which  is  in  the 
water.  The  water-crowfoot,  for  instance,  bears 
some  floating  leaves,  and  some  which  live  beneath 
the  surface.  The  floating  leaves  are  broad,  like 
those  of  the  plant's  near  relations,  the  meadow 
buttercups,  but  those  which  live  in  the  water  are 
fringed. 

In  the  common  arrow-head,  another  amphibi- 
ous vegetable,  the  submerged  leaves  are  long  and 
narrow,  like  blades  of  grass,  and  the  terrestrial 
ones  are  arrow-shaped.  Every  leaf  which  spends 
its  life  under  water,  whatever  its  family  habits  and 
traditions  may  be,  and  whatever  its  aerial  sisters 
may  look  like,  is  either  a  fringe  or  a  narrow  rib- 
bon. Thus  submerged  foliage  is  doubly  fitted  for 


Green  Leaves  at  Work  1 13 

its  habitat.  The  slender  blades  and  delicate 
fringes  are  adapted,  like  fishes'  gills,  to  bring  the 
greatest  possible  area  of  surface  into  contact  with 
the  water,  and  thus,  also,  with  the  air,  which  is 
diffused  through  it. 

And  the  waves  and  currents,  which  might  tear 
a  broad  leaf  to  ribbons,  glide  harmlessly  through 
these  blades  and  fringes,  just  as  the  ocean  gales, 
which  rip  the  Canna  leaves  in  our  summer  cottage- 
gardens  into  "  smithereens,"  sough  harmlessly 
through  the  slender  needles  of  the  coast  pines. 

The  thick,  fat  foliage  of  the  house-leek,  the 
aloe,  and  the  century-plant  does  double  duty. 
These  leaves  not  only  prepare  nourishment  for  the 
plant,  but  also  serve  as  storehouses  to  hold  it. 

Their  whole  interior  is  white  as  that  of  a  potato, 
and,  like  that  useful  vegetable,  they  are  heavily 
loaded  with  starch,  while  their  green  surfaces  fulfil 
the  ordinary  use  of  foliage — transpiration  and  di- 
gestion. 

As  an  Irishman  might  put  the  case,  there  are 
leaves  which  are  not  leaves  at  all — but  are  some- 
thing else. 

At  the  end  of  a  climbing  spray  of  the  pea  or 
vetch  the  topmost  leaf — or  a  part  of  it — becomes 
(Fig.  23)  a  tendril  by  means  of  which  the  vine  clings 


1 14    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

to  whatever  it  can  reach.  Always  on  the  Irish 
Gorse,  and  sometimes  on  growing  tips  of  our 
native  barberry  bushes,  leaves  are  metamorphosed 


FIG.  23. — A  climbing  spray  of   the    pea.      (The  topmost  leaflets 

are  converted  into  tendrils.) 

(From  the  Vegetable  World.) 

into  thorns.  In  the  case  of  the  cactus,  and  some 
other  succulent  dwellers  in  thirsty  lands,  they  are 
transformed  into  pickles. 


Green  Leaves  at  Work  115 

And  a  whole  category  of  plants  bear  leaves 
which  are  traps  for  the  luring  and  snaring  of  in- 
sects. 

So  the  functions  of  leaves  vary  widely,  and  their 
forms  vary  still  more.  "The  leaves  of  the  herb- 
age at  our  feet,"  says  Ruskin,  "take  all  kinds 
of  strange  shapes,  as  if  to  invite  us  to  examine 
them.  Star-shaped,  heart-shaped,  spear-shaped,  ar- 
row-shaped, fretted,  fringed,  cleft,  furrowed,  ser- 
rated, in  whorles,  in  tufts,  in  wreaths,  in  spires, 
endlessly  expressive,  deceptive,  fantastic,  never  the 
same,  from  footstalks  to  blossom,  they  seem  per- 
petually to  tempt  our  watchfulness,  and  take  de- 
light in  outstripping  our  wonder." 


CHAPTER   VI 
LILY-KIN   AND   ROSE-KIN 

"  Let  us  change  the  subject,  and  talk  about  lilies  and  roses." 
— E.  Buxton. 

FROM  time  out  of  mind  there  has  been  a  close 
companionship  between  the  lily  and  the  rose. 
They  have  bloomed  together  in  all  gardens  of 
delight,  from  Mother  Eve's,  where  the  rose  was 
"without  thorn,"  to  grandmamma's,  where  they 
lived  with  single  pinks,  and  gillyflowers,  prince's- 
feather,  and  love  lies-bleeding,  behind  prim  hedges 
of  clipped  box.  They  have  been  together  in  her- 
aldry, where  the  Rose  of  England  and  the  Lily  of 
France  were  blazoned  on  the  same  Plantagenet 
shields  and  banners,  together  in  mediaeval  art, 
where  they  have  bloomed  side  by  side  at  the  feet 
of  the  Virgin,  and  together  in  the  love-poetry  of 
all  times  and  lands  from  the  Hebrew  "Song  of 
Songs"  to  Tennyson's  "Maud." 

But  botany  breaks  up  this  immemorial  fellow- 
ship and  puts  them  far  asunder.  It  tells  us,  in- 
deed, that  they  have  nothing  in  common. 

116 


Lily-kin  and  Rose-kin  117 

Each  represents  one  of  the  two  great  classes, 
into  which  most  flowering  plants  are  divided.  The 
lily's  tribe  is  described  by  the  ponderous  term 
"  Monocotyledons,"  and  includes  palms,  rushes, 
sedges,  grasses,  the  Calla-lily  and  her  kin,  the 
queenly  orchids,  and  many  simple  flowers,  better 
known  and  better  loved  than  either. 

The  rose  is  a  "Dicotyledon,"  and  member  of  a 
series  whose  names  are  legion. 

The  differences  between  these  two  great  classes 
of  plants,  of  which  lily  and  rose  are  types,  begin 
while  they  yet  lie  dormant  in  the  seed  and  may 
be  clearly  seen  at  every  point  in  their  subsequent 
development. 

Every  seed,  of  whatever  variety,  contains  a  little 
plant,  completely  formed  and  snugly  folded  into 
the  smallest  possible  compass.  Packed  around  this 
little  plant,  or  incorporated  into  its  substance, 
there  is  (in  most  cases)  a  store  of  starchy  food 
which  will  nourish  it  till  it  grows  large  and  strong 
enough  to  shift  for  itself.  And  wrapped  about  the 
outside  of  the  seed  there  are  generally  two  coats, 
the  inner  very  thin  and  fine,  and  the  outer  com- 
paratively firm  and  tough. 

The  peculiarities  which  distinguish  the  seeds  of 
the  Monocotyledons  may  be  readily  seen  in  a 


n8    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

grain  of  Indian  corn  which  has  been  soaked  in 
water  till  it  is  swollen  and  softened.  If  now  we 
split  it  down  lengthwise  with  a  sharp  penknife 
we  can  see  something  of  its  inner  economy,  with- 
out the  aid  of  a  microscope.  Near  the  smaller  end 
of  the  grain,  and  at  one  side,  is  a  pale,  tiny  corn- 
plant.  It  has  one  leaf  rolled  into  a  hollow  cone, 
and  enclosing  a  little  bud,  whence  other  leaves 
would  have  developed  had  the  plants  sprouted  in 
the  ground.  There  is  a  short,  thick  stalk,  and,  at  its 
base,  a  blunt  point. 

At  this  point  lies  a  little  group  of  cells,  full  of 
vital  power,  whence  the  roots  of  the  seedling 
should  have  sprung. 

But  the  whole  young  plant  or  germ  occupies  but 
a  small  proportion  of  the  seed's  interior,  and  all 
the  rest  of  the  space  is  filled  with  stored  food  for 
the  seedling's  first  growth. 

The  wheat  germ  lies  in  a  similar  position  to  that 
of  the  baby  corn-plant,  in  the  narrower  end  of 
the  seed,  and  pressed  against  its  wall.  And  in  it, 
as  in  all  the  grains  and  grasses,  Nature  has  pro- 
vided very  liberally  for  the  first  needs  of  the 
sprouting  plant.  This  is  the  reason  why  the  seeds 
of  grasses — corn,  wheat,  rye,  barley,  rice,  and  oats 
— are  among  the  chief  food  products  of  the  world. 


Lily-kin  and  Rose-kin  1 19 

In  all  these  seeds  the  store  of  nourishment  is 
packed  around  the  little  plant,  close  to  it,  but  dis- 
tinct from  it. 

Scientific  botanists  call  such  seeds  as  this  "  al- 
buminous," and  they  are  produced  by  the  majority 
of  the  lily's  kin. 

The  seeds  of  most  dicotyledons,  on  the  con- 
trary, contain  little  or  nothing,  except  the  baby- 
plant,  and  are  called  "  exalbuminous." 

But  we  must  not  infer  from  this  term  that  the 
kin  of  the  rose  send  their  offspring  out  portion- 
less into  the  cold  world.  Food  for  the  seedling 
during  its  feeble  infancy  is  generally  present,  and 
often  abundant.  Peas,  beans,  and  acorns  are  fat 
and  firm  with  starches  for  the  young  plant.  Rape, 
flaxseed,  and  castor-oil  beans  are  rich  in  vegetable 
oil,  and  nearly  all  seeds  contain  nitrogenous  nour- 
ishment in  the  form  of  aleurone. 

But  this  nourishment  is  stored,  not  around  the 
baby- plant,  but  within  the  tissues  of  the  first 
leaves.  And  these  leaves,  in  the  kin  of  the  rose, 
are  always  two  in  number.  Their  substance  has 
formed  part  of  the  seed,  and  therefore  they  are 
called  seed-leaves  or  "cotyledons,"  and  all  the 
plants  which  have  two  of  them  are  distinguished  as 
dicotyledons  (two-seed  leaves).  When  we  take  the 


120    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

woody  shell  off  an  acorn,  or  strip  the  skin  from 
a  bean,  we  find  that  the  white  substance  which  re- 
mains splits  naturally  into  halves.  These  are  the 
two  first  leaves  of  the  young  plant,  so  distended 
by  the  nourishment  stored  within  them  that  their 
true  character  is  not  at  once  discernible.  Folded 
between  them  lie  two  more  leaves,  almost  white 
and  very  tiny,  which  will  be  unfolded  to  the  light 
as  soon  as  the  young  plant  gets  its  head  fairly 
above  ground,  and  between  these  inner  and  younger 
leaves  is  that  portion  of  the  plant  which  will  carry 
on  the  work  of  development — the  growing  point. 

Sometimes,  when  the  cotyledons  are  very  large 
and  heavy,  the  tender  stem  of  the  seedling  seems 
unequal  to  the  task  of  lifting  them  above  ground. 
This  is  the  case  with  germinating  acorns  and 
horse-chestnuts. 

The  nut  remains  beneath  the  ground  or  on  its 
surface,  and  the  first  leaves  which  the  seedling-oak 
or  horse-chestnut  unfolds  to  the  light  correspond 
to  the  first  pair  of  soft,  green  leaves  which  appear 
on  the  little  bean-plant. 

The  halves  of  the  sprouting  bean,  which  appear 
above  ground  as  two  thick,  oval  seed-leaves,  cor- 
respond to  the  halves  of  the  sprouting  horse- 
chestnut,  which  lie  half  buried  beneath  the  soil. 


Lily-kin  and  Rose-kin  121 

After  the  dicotyledon  has  formed  its  roots  and  is 
fairly  started  in  life,  its  leaves  may  grow  up  the 
stem  singly  or  in  pairs,  and  new  ones  may  unfold 
one  at  a  time  or  two  together.  But  whatever  indi- 
vidual eccentricities  or  family  characteristics  appear 
in  the  arrangement  of  later  foliage,  the  seed-leaves 
of  the  rose's  kin  are  always  two,  alike  and  opposite. 

But  the  lily's  many  kin  have  each,  as  the 
ponderous  term  monocotyledon  implies,  but  a 
single  seed-leaf.  In  the  ripe  grain-  or  grass-seed 
it  has  a  peculiar  shield-like  form,  and  it  is  wrapped 
completely  around  the  second  leaf  and  the  stem 
that  is  to  be.  When  the  grain  begins  to  sprout 
the  upper  end  of  the  cotyledon  remains  in  the  seed 
and  feeds  on  the  nutriment  which  has  been  stored 
there.  But  its  lower  part  lengthens  and  pushes  all 
the  rest  of  the  little  plant  out  into  the  world. 

This  cotyledon's  main  purpose  in  life  is  to  ab- 
sorb the  starches  and  other  nourishing  things 
packed  away  in  the  grain,  and  not  to  digest  crude 
sap,  as  most  leaves  do.  It  has,  in  most  in- 
stances, no  use  for  chlorophyll,  and  therefore  it  is 
seldom  green. 

We  may  find  it  near  the  roots  of  a  young 
grass-plant,  shrivelled  away,  now  that  its  work  is 
done,  to  a  little  horny,  brownish  scale. 


122    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

The  second  leaf  of  the  young  monocotyledon  is 
developed  later  than  the  seed-leaf,  and  higher  up 
on  the  stem,  and  the  third  comes  later  and  higher 
still.  So  when  the  growing  lily  or  wheat  is  a  few 


FIG.  24. — Parallel-veined  leaves  of  the  Indian  shot  (Canna  Indica). 
(From  the  Vegetable  World.) 

inches    above    ground    we    see    that    its    leaves    are 
scattered  along  the  stem,    each  singly  and  alone. 

When    the    plant   is    a    little    older    this    alternate 
arrangement    may    be    abandoned     for     some    more 


Lily-kin  and  Rose-kin  123 

complex  plan.  The  leaves  of  some  lilies  are 
borne  in  circles,  like  spokes  of  a  wheel,  and  those 
of  some  of  the  lilies'  cousins  are  so  ranged  along 
the  stem  that  a  line  drawn  through  the  point  of 
insertion  of  each  will  go  winding  upward  in  a 
beautifully  symmetrical  spiral. 

One  of  the  most  marked  characteristics  of  Mono- 
colyletons  is  the  veining  of  the  leaves. 

By  this  alone  we  can  generally  tell  almost  at  a 
glance  whether  a  plant  is  to  be  classed  with  the 
lily  or  with  the  rose. 

The  foliage  of  the  lily-kin  generally  has  what 
botanists  call  parallel  veins  (Fig.  24). 

A  mathematician  would  take  exception  to  the 
term,  for  parallel  lines,  as  we  all  know,  never 
meet,  while  parallel  leaf-veins  come  together  at 
the  leaf's  tip. 

But  the  student  of  plant-life  who  called  the 
veins  of  lily-leaves  and  grass-blades  "parallel," 
was  probably  comparing  them  to  the  veins  of  di- 
cotyledenous  foliage,  which  twist  and  branch  into  a 
mesh-work  as  bewildering  as  it  is  beautiful  (Fig.  25). 

The  leaves  of  lilies  and  their  kin  are  almost 
always  simple  in  outline, — arrow-shaped,  heart- 
shaped,  oval,  or  long  and  narrow,  like  blades  of 
grass. 


124    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

Branched  leaves  occur  only  rarely  and  exception- 
ally among  the  palms,  and  in  a  few  of  jack-in- 
the-pulpit's  eccentric  cousins.  But  the  blade- 
like  foliage  (Fig  26)  is  borne  by  many  plants 
among  the  lily's  kin — the  crocus,  iris  and  spider- 


FIG.  25. — Net-veined  leaves  of  the  lime-tree. 

(From  the  Vegetable  World.) 

wort,  the  orange-colored  lily  of  old-fashioned  gar- 
dens, the  blue-eyed  grass,  the  cat  tail  flags,  and 
other  familiar  flower  friends.  Such  leaves,  like 
grass-blades,  have  no  true  stalks,  but  spring  from 
sheaths  which  enfold  the  stem.  These  clasping 


Lily-kin  and  Rose-kin 


125 


FIG.  26. — Blade-like  leaves  of  the  iris,  with  clasping  bases. 
(From  the  Vegetable  World.) 


126    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

bases  and  perfectly  straight  veins  are  characteristic 
of  the  narrow  foliage  of  monocotyledenous  plants. 
Whether  narrow  or  broad,  the  leaves  borne  by 
the  lily's  kin  have,  as  a  rule,  straight  edges,  plain 
and  unadorned. 

The  leaves  of  the  rose's  kin  are  far  more  elabo- 
rate in  effect.  Sometimes,  as  in  the  case  of  the 
rose  itself,  each  of  them  is  "compound" — made  up 
of  a  number  of  smaller  leaves.  Sometimes  they 
are  cut  into  delicate  lace-work,  as  is  the  foliage 
of  the  yarrow  and  of  the  domestic  carrot. 

Sometimes,  like  the  leaves  of  the  rose-geranium, 
they  are  curiously  slashed,  and  in  many  cases  their 
edges  are  daintily  cut  into  points,  teeth,  or  scallops. 

Their  veins,  as  we  have  already  observed,  run 
' '  every- which  way,"  and  even  when  the  larger 
veins  parallel  one  another  with  copy-book  preci- 
sion, as  in  the  chestnut-leaves,  the  veinlets  wander 
here  and  there  in  graceful  lawlessness. 

It  is  in  the  tissue  of  the  stem,  and  in  its  mode  of 
growth,  that  the  chief  distinction  between  the  two 
greatest  groups  of  flowering-plants  is  to  be  found. 

Next  to  the  palmettos,  which  are  not  found  in  a 
wild  state  north  of  the  Carolinas,  the  Indian  corn  is 
the  largest  of  native  monocotyledonous  plants.  If 
we  cut  a  thin,  cross-wise  slice  out  of  a  corn-stalk 


Lily-kin  and  Rose-kin  127 

we  need  no  microscope  to  show  us  its  internal 
structure.  We  see  that  there  is  no  separable  bark, 
and  that  the  woody  substance  is  in  delicate  threads, 
which  are  scattered  all  through  the  pithy  interior, 
but  are  most  numerous  toward  the  outside  of  the 
stalk.  The  palmetto  trunk  is  built  after  the  same 
plan,  but  its  woody  threads  are  so  tough,  and  so 
closely  massed  together,  that  they  make  a  material 


FIG.  27. — Crosswise  section  of  a  palmetto  trunk. 

(From  the  Vegetable  World.) 

hard    enough    to    be    useful    to    the    cabinet-maker 
(Fig.  27). 

If  we  could  detach  a  single  woody  thread  from 
the  corn-stalk,  cut  a  thin,  crosswise  slice  of  it,  and 
examine  it  with  a  powerful  microscope,  we  should 
see  that  it  is  a  compact  bundle  of  small  filaments, 
and  that  each  filament  is  a  row  of  short  tubes  or 


128    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

vessels.  Transverse  partition-walls  separate  one 
vessel  from  another,  and  these  walls  are  sometimes 
horizontal  and  sometimes  aslant.  An  inquiry  into 
the  names  and  uses  of  all  these  vessels  would  take 
one  far  into  the  mazes  of  structural  botany. 

The  student  afield,  with  no  equipment  save  a 
penknife  and  a  pocket-lens,  and  with  mayhap  but  a 
limited  stock  of  patience,  is  content  to  know  that  this 
woody  thread  is  a  fibre-vascular  bundle,  and  that 
its  important  parts  are  wood-vessels,  bast-tubes,  and 
tough  fibres,  which  give  strength  and  support  to  the 
whole  affair.  Further  support  is  given  to  the  fibro- 
vascular  bundle  of  a  monocotyledon  or  a  fern  by  a 
bundle-sheath  made  of  corky  cells  or  of  cells  with 
very  thick  walls. 

The  kin  of  the  rose,  too,  form  fibre-vascular 
bundles,  and  tough  ones  at  that.  When,  in  rid- 
ding the  lawn  of  an  intrusive  plantain,  one  gives  a 
pull  to  the  tuft  of  leaves  they  are  apt  to  tear  away, 
leaving  whitish  strings  dangling  from  the  broken 
surfaces.  These  are  the  fibro-vascular  bundles  of 
the  leaf-stem,  and  so  are  the  strings,  which  must 
be  removed  from  imperfectly-frosted  table-celery. 

In  the  "wood"  of  a  bundle  are  included  all 
those  vessels  through  which  fluids  ascend  from  the 
roots  toward  the  leaves. 


Lily-kin  and  Rose-kin  129 

The  walls  of  some  of  these  are  queerly  pitted, 
and  those  of  others  are  beautifully  marked  with 
raised  rings  or  spirals. 

When  the  plant  is  growing  actively  the  largest 
vessels  generally  contain  but  a  film  of  fluid  cover- 
ing their  walls,  while  the  rest  of  the  space  within 
them  is  filled  with  air. 

The  tubes,  which  are  the  most  important  part  of 
the  bast,  have  thin  walls  with  delicate  tracery,  and 
are  the  route  by  which  fluids  descend  from  the 
leaves  toward  the  roots. 

The  water  which  a  growing  plant  absorbs  from 
the  soil  holds  in  solution  many  mineral  and  chemi- 
cal substances.  This  liquid  is  "  crude  sap,"  and  it 
is  the  material  upon  which  three  magicians  work 
together.  The  green  coloring-matter  in  the  leaves, 
the  sunlight  falling  upon  them,  and  the  carbon 
dioxide  in  the  air  about  them,  are  the  efficient  trio. 

And  the  result  of  their  subtle  alchemy  is 
"  digested  sap,"  which  moves  downward  from  the 
leaves  into  all  the  growing  parts  of  the  plant, 
travelling  always  through  the  bast. 

When  Nature  is  about  to  make  a  new  fibre-vas- 
cular bundle,  in  lily-kin  or  in  rose-kin,  a  little  of 
the  cellular  substance  of  the  growing  stem  experi- 
ences a  change  of  character,  and  becomes  set  aside, 


130    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

as  it  were,  for  new  and  higher  uses.  Each  cell  in 
such  a  cluster  divides  lengthwise  into  two,  which 
again  divide,  each  into  two.  This  young  tissue  in- 
stinct with  formative  life  is  "  procambium."  After 
a  little  while  the  cells  on  one  side  of  it  lengthen, 
their  walls  grow  thicker,  and  on  them  appear  the 
annular  and  spiral  markings  characteristic  of  the 
first-formed  wood-vessels.  On  the  other  side  of  the 
procambium,  meantime,  bast-tubes  are  taking  shape 
and  office. 

In  the  palmetto-trunk,  in  the  corn-stalk,  and  in 
the  stems  of  most  lilies  the  cells  of  the  procam- 
bium soon  cease  to  multiply,  and  they  all  become 
altered  over  into  wood  or  bast  before  the  close  of 
the  growing  season. 

Thus  Nature  comes  to  the  end  of  her  material, 
and  the  growth  of  the  bundle  ceases  perforce. 
Fibro  -  vascular  bundles  of  this  nature,  which  can 
grow  "just  so  much  and  no  more,"  are  called 
"closed,"  and  are  very  general  among  monoco- 
tyledons. They  are  shut  off  from  one  another  by 
masses  of  pith,  and  there  is  not,  at  any  season,  a 
continuous  ring  of  young  tissue  running  around 
the  stem.  So  it  is  only  in  a  few  exceptional  cases 
that  the  monocotyledonous  stem  grows  steadily 
thicker  with  age. 


Lily-kin  and  Rose-kin  131 

The  corn  at  six  weeks  old  is  more  sturdy  than 
when  it  first  rises  above  ground,  but  this  is  mainly 
because  the  second  joint  of  the  stem  is  larger  than 
the  first,  and  the  third  larger  than  the  second.  So 
if  we  push  away  the  earth  from  the  base  of  grow- 
ing corn  we  find  that  the  portion  closest  to  the 
ground  is  more  slender  than  the  portion  above. 
But  the  increase  in  the  diameter  of  the  corn-stalk, 
lily-stem,  or  palmetto-trunk  is  entirely  limited 
to  the  earliest  period  of  growth.  Some  of  the 
oldest  palmettos  in  Florida  are  noticeably  slen- 
der. 

Among  all  the  lily's  many  kin  there  is  but  one 
native  plant  which  grows  stouter  as  it  grows  old. 
This  is  the  yucca  or  bear-grass  of  the  Southern 
States,  which  is  interesting  to  botanists  as  a  con- 
necting link  between  two  great  classes  of  plants, 
for  it  is  a  monocotyledon  in  everything  except  its 
mode  of  growth,  and  in  that  it  resembles  the  di- 
cotyledons. For  the  kin  of  the  rose  grow  stouter 
and  sturdier  with  every  year  of  life. 

The  main  stem  and  older  branches  of  a  rose- 
bush have  a  tough  bark,  which  peels  off  readily  in 
strips.  If  we  examine  this  carefully  we  find  that 
it  consists  of  two  portions.  The  outer  layer  is 
thin  and  colorless,  and  in  an  old  rose  -  bush  it  is 


132    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

dry  and  apparently  half  dead.  Inside  this  is  a 
layer  of  green  bark,  full  of  sap  and  vitality. 

Beneath  this  lies  the  wood — a  hollow  cylinder, 
enclosing  a  light  porous  substance  —  the  pith. 
This  marked  division  of  the  stem  into  concentric 
rings  of  bark,  wood,  and  pith  is  found  only  in  the 
dicotyledons. 

In  a  very  young  plant  of  the  rose's  kin  this  dis- 
tinction is  not  yet  apparent. 

Indeed,  a  cross-section  of  any  very  young  flower- 
ing-plant shows  a  stem-tissue  alike  in  every  part. 
In  the  lily's  kin  it  all  behaves  alike,  for  any  clus- 
ter of  cells  anywhere  in  the  young  stalk  may  turn 
into  procambium. 

But  when  a  young  plant  of  the  rose's  kin  is 
about  to  acquire  fibro  -  vascular  bundles  the  little 
clusters  of  cells  which  become  instinct  with  con- 
structive life  lie  just  beneath  the  surface  of  the 
stem. 

Next  spring's  bundles  will  develop  '  in  the 
spaces  between  those  of  last  spring,  and  by  time 
the  stem  is  four  or  five  years  old  it  has  a  ring  of 
bast  running  all  around  it  and  a  ring  of  wood 
within.  Between  these,  in  spring,  there  is  a  circle 
of  cells  which  are  actively  at  work  building  up  new 
tissue. 


Lily-kin  and  Rose-kin  133 

When  we  peel  the  bark  off  a  spring  bough  we 
break  these  forming  cells,  and  the  jelly  which  fills 
them  escapes,  moistening  the  wood,  and  our  de- 
structive fingers  also. 

During  this  season  of  vigorous  growth  the  fibro- 
vascular  bundle  of  a  dicotyledon  consists,  broadly 
speaking,  of  three  parts — the  wood,  the  bast,  and 
the  generative  tissue,  full  of  sap  and  vitality, 
which  lies  between  them. 

By  the  end  of  summer,  however,  a  transverse 
section  of  the  bundle  in  question  will  show  no  ac- 
tively-dividing constructive  cells.  The  formation 
of  new  substances  is  over  for  the  season,  and  each 
fibro-vascular  bundle  now  seems  to  consist  of 
but  two  important  elements,  wood-vessels  and  bast- 
tubes. 

But  the  work  of  tissue-building  in  this  kind  of 
a  bundle  is  not  finished.  It  is  merely  arrested. 
The  constructive  life  at  the  core  is  "scotched, 
not  killed,"  and  after  remaining  dormant  all  winter 
it  reawakens  in  spring.  Then  a  zone  of  young 
cells  instinct  with  creative  vigor  will  come  into 
being  between  wood  and  bast,  and  tissue-building 
'  will  recommence. 

So  the  fibro-vascular  bundles  of  roses  and  their 
kin  are  capable  of  renewing  their  growth,  year 


134    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

after  year,  or,  in  technical  language,  they  are 
"  open." 

In  the  country  north  of  the  Carolinas  all  native 
leaf-bearing  trees  are  dicotyledons.  In  April, 
May,  and  June  constructive  tissue  is  present  and 
active  in  them  all.  New  wood  is  generated 
rapidly,  and  the  vesels  and  cells  which  are  formed 
are  comparatively  large.  Later  in  the  year,  when 
life  stirs  less  lustily  in  the  vegetable  creation, 
smaller  vessels  and  cells  will  be  formed.  So  the 
difference  between  '*  spring"  and  "summer"  wood 
is  often  readily  discernable  even  to  the  unaided 
eye,  and  always  evident  by  aid  of  the  pocket-lens. 

We  may  see  it  on  the  upper  surface  of  any 
casual  stump.  The  spring  wood  often  looks  as  if 
it  had  been  used  as  a  pincushion,  because  we  see 
in  it  so  many  circular  ends  of  now  empty  vessels 
and  tubes.  The  summer  wood  is  much  more  com- 
pact in  its  texture,  and  sometimes  darker  in  color. 
So  rings  run  around  and  around  the  stump,  and  by 
counting  them  we  can  tell  the  age  of  the  tree — not 
accurately,  but  approximately.  For  it  is  quite 
possible  that,  if  the  season  be  moist,  and  the 
autumn  late,  more  than  one  growth-ring  will  be 
formed  in  one  year.  If  our  stump  were  standing 
in  Florida  woods  its  rings  would  tell  us  little. 


Lily-kin  and  Rose-kin  135 

For  there  mild  winters  sometimes  favor  almost 
continuous  growth,  and  cambium  may  be  present, 
and  new  wood  may  be  formed,  during  almost  any 
month  in  the  twelve.  The  rings  of  a  tree  (Fig. 
28)  are  a  trustworthy  guide  only  in  northern  lati- 
tudes, where  vegetation  has  a  period  of  vigorous 
growth  followed  by  a  period  of  torpor. 

In    all    dicotyledenous    trunks    the    newest    wood 


FIG.  28. — Crosswise   section  of  the   trunk  of   a  young  oak-tree, 
showing  growth-rings. 

(From  the  Vegetable  World.) 

lies  just  beneath  the  inner  bark,  and  the  older 
wood  toward  the  centre.  So  a  little  is  added  to 
the  girth  by  each  year's  growth,  till  the  enor- 
mously thick  trunks  of  some  or  our  larger  forest- 
trees  are  built. 

The    differences    between   the   rose's    kindred    and 
the    lily's    kindred   culminate  in   their  flowers.     The 


136    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

costly  roses  which  droop  in  florist's  windows  are 
brought  to  an  artificial  state  by  arduous  culture, 
and  held  in  it  by  eternal  vigilance.  They  are 
propogated  mainly  by  cuttings.  Left  to  them- 
selves for  a  while  their  blossoms  would  dwindle 
and  their  pollen  would  intermix,  till,  in  the  course 
of  time,  the  rose-garden  would  be  filled  with  a 
generation  of  seedlings,  showing  what  naturalists 
call  "reversion  to  type.'*  Jacqueminots,  American 
Beauties,  Bonsilenes  and  Catharine  Mermels  would 
be  sought  there  in  vain.  In  their  stead  we  should 
find  blossoms  resembling  some  more,  some  less 
closely,  the  ancestral  wild  roses  from  which  all 
sprang. 

It  is  from  the  wild-rose,  queen  not  yet  come  to 
her  own  (Fig.  29),  that  we  shall  best  study  the 
differences  between  the  flowers  of  dicotyledons 
and  those  of  monocotyledons. 

The  wild  rose  has  five  sepals  and  five  petals. 
Its  stamens  are  innumerable  and  the  cells  of  the 
rose-hip  are  partially  or  entirely  fused  together. 
But  the  number  five  is  more  closely  adhered  to  by 
other  members  of  the  rose  tribe.  The  apple- 
blossom,  for  instance,  has  five  sepals  and  five 
petals,  and  apple-seeds  are  stored  in  five  horny 
pockets.  The  geranium  tribe,  the  mallows,  the 


FIG.  29. — Wild  roses. 
137 


Lily-kin  and  Rose-kin  139 

numerous  cousins  of  the  pinks,  the  violets,  almost 
every  member  of  the  immense  buttercup  connec- 
tion, and  many  other  blossoms  of  many  tribes,  fol- 
low the  rule  of  five  with  more  or  less  fidelity. 

Other  large  families  among  the  rose's  kin  bear 
blossoms,  whose  parts,  like  those  of  the  garden- 
fuchsia,  are  in  fours  or  in  multiples  of  four. 

Among  the  lily's  kin  the  parts  of  the  flower  are 
in  threes,  or  their  structure  shows  that  they  once 
followed  the  rule  of  three,  which  they  have  now 
partially  abandoned. 

The  lilies  themselves  have  three  sepals  and 
three  petals,  generally  much  alike  in  color  and 
texture  (Fig.  30).  Sometimes  all  six  have  grown 
together  into  a  chalice,  which  is  still  bordered 
with  six  reminiscent  scallops. 

Within  these  are  three  stamens — or,  it  may  be 
six — forming  an  outer  and  an  inner  trio.  At  the 
flower's  heart  there  may  be  three  pistils,  or,  as  in 
the  flowering  rush,  six.  or  one,  which,  when  we 
slice  it  across,  is  found  to  contain  three  seed- 
pockets.  Sometimes  as  the  seed-vessel  ripens  these 
pockets  break  away  from  one  another,  so  that  the 
final  result  looks  almost  like  three  ripened  pistils 

(Fig-  30- 

The    blossoms    of    grasses    and    sedges    have    de- 


140    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

parted,  sometimes  widely,  from  the  ancestral  type, 
but  even  in  them  the  "  three-by-three "  plan  may 
be  distinguished. 

The     palmettos     of     the    Carolinas    bear     flowers 
much   like  those  of  grasses. 


FIG.  30. — A  lily-flower. 

(From  the  Vegetable  World.)  World) 

And  so  we  come  to  these  .  monocotyledons 
which,  having  diverged  most  widely  from  the 
primitive  type,  are  most  perplexing  to  the  bota- 
nist,— the  calla  and  her  poor  relations,  and  the  cat- 
tail flags. 

Incredible  as  it  may  sound,  the  calla  is  not  a 
flower,  and  the  snowy  "spathe"  which  enfolds  its 


FIG.  32. — Sweet-flag  (Acorus  Calamus}. 
141 


Lily-kin  and  Rose-kin  143 

golden  head  is  neither  a  petal  nor  a  sisterhood  of 
petals.  It  is  a  foliage-leaf,  become  big  and  beau- 
tiful in  order  to  lure  the  marsh-flies  of  the  calla's 
native  haunts  to  visit  and  fertilize  its  flowers;  for 
the  real  flowers  are  not  one,  but  legion.  They 
have  lost  everything  which  ever  belonged  to  them 
except  a  few  stamens,  or  a  few  stamens  and  a 
pistil,  as  the  case  may  be.  They  completely  cover 
the  column  or  spadix,  which  stands  up  inside  the 
enfolding  leaf,  and  in  the  calla  of  commerce  they 
are  so  massed  together  that  it  is  difficult  to  dis- 
tinguish them  even  with  a  lens. 

The  calla's  past  condition  may  be  surmised  from 
the  present  state  of  some  of  its  humble  cousins 
which  are  to  be  found  around  ponds  and  in  bogs 
in  the  northern  and  central  United  States. 

In  the  sweet-flag  or  calamus,  for  instance,  the 
flowers  which  crowd  the  spadix  are  perfect  and 
complete  (Fig.  32). 

Each  has  six  flower-leaves,  which  are  now  re- 
duced to  half-transparent  greenish  scales,  six  sta- 
mens, and  a  three-celled  ovary  enclosing  several 
seeds  (Fig.  33). 

By  studying  these  flowers  we  see  how  a  mass 
of  perfect  little  lilies  may  have  been  altered  into 
a  mere  club  of  stamens  and  pistils. 


144    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

As  the    lilies   are  squeezed    together  their  flower- 
leaves  have   no    chance   to   reach   a  perfect  develop- 
ment.     So  the  spathe,    at    first    a 
mere  leafy  sheath,  begins  to  assume 
the      duties       which      they       have 

abandoned,  and,  by  making  a  show 
FIG.    33.  —A    single. 

floret  of  the  sweet-  m   the    world,  helps   to  lure  flying- 
flag. 

insects  to  the  blossom-colony. 

The  downward  path  is  as  easy  in  nature  as  it 
is  in  morals.  Generation  after  generation  the  par- 
tially-superseded flower-leaves  pale  and  dwindle, 
till,  as  in  the  calla,  they  are  wholly  superseded, 
and  the  spathe  completely  usurps  their  office  of 
insect-luring. 

The  cat-tail  flag  is  like  a  calla,  with  its  stami- 
nate  .and  pistillate  flowers  separated,  and  with  its 
creamy  leaf  torn  away.  It  depends  upon  the  wind 
for  its  pollen-carrying,  and  hence  has  no  need  of 
an  insect-lure.  Its  flowers  are  reduced  to  the 
lowest  possible  terms,  and  may  represent  the  last 
step  in  degeneration. 

In  early  summer  the  cat-tail  is  a  two-story  ar- 
rangement (Fig.  34).  The  upper  part  is  of 
golden-green  and  soft-like  chenille,  while  the  lower 
portion  is  darker  in  hue  and  more  solid  to  the 
touch.  The  golden-green  upper-story  is  a  mass 


FIG.  34. — June  aspect  of  the  cat-tail  flags. 
145 


Lily-kin  and  Rose-kin 


147 


of  stamens,  or,  to  speak  strictly,  of  reduced 
staminate  flowers,  inserted  directly  on  the  central 
stalk  and  mingled  with  long  hairs.  By  latter  July 
the  stamens  have  shed  their  pollen  and  shrivelled, 
and  they  and  their  accompanying  hairs  have 
dropped  off,  leaving  a  bare  stalk  behind  them. 
The  darker  and  more  substantial  lower-story  is  a 


FIG.  35.  — Single  florets  of  the  cat-tail  flag. 

a,  Young  staminate  (or  male)  floret;  b,  older  staminate  (or  male)  floret;  c,  pis- 
tillate (or  female)  floret. 

mass  of  blossoms,  each  reduced  to  a  little  stalk 
bearing  one  pistil  and  a  few  bristles.  When  the 
ovaries  have  ripened  into  minute  fruits — not  seeds, 
though  we  should  incline  to  call  them  so — the  bristles 
will  buoy  them  up  on  the  autumn  winds  and  enable 
them  to  fly  far  in  search  of  new  homes  (Fig.  35). 
To  the  evolutionary  botanist  the  little  stalk 


148    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

which  supports  the  cat-tail  ovary  suggests  the  stalk 
of  a  perhaps  once  perfect  flower,  and  the  bristles 
the  flower-leaves  that  used  to  be. 

So  starting  from  the  complete  and  perfect  lily 
with  six  creamy  flower-leaves,  six  stamens,  a 
three-celled  ovary,  and  a  seed-vessel  splitting  into 
three,  we  can  trace  every  step  in  a  downward 
course  till  we  come  to  the  lowly  estate  of  her 
distant  poor  relations,  the  cat-tail  flags. 

But  in  members  of  the  lily's  kin,  of  high  or 
low  degree,  the  fibre-vascular  bundles  of  the  stem 
are  "  closed,"  the  leaves  have  parallel  veins,  the 
parts  of  the  flower  follow  more  or  less  closely 
the  rule  of  three,  the  ripe  seed  contains  abundant 
nourishment,  packed  around  the  germ,  and  the 
sprouting  plant  has  one  cotyledon. 

And  in  the  kindred  of  the  rose,  aristocratic  or 
plebeian,  the  fibre-vascular  bundles  of  the  stem  are 
"open,"  and  the  leaf-veins  branch  into  compli- 
cated networks.  The  parts  of  the  blossom  are  in 
fours  or  fives.  The  nourishment  garnered  for  the 
germ  is  generally  packed  into  the  cotyledons,  and 
those  cotyledons  are  two  and  opposite. 

So  from  the  very  first  the  great  law  of  heredity 
asserts  itself,  and  the  type  of  the  race  is  impressed 
upon  the  germ  while  it  yet  lies  dormant  in  the  seed. 


CHAPTER    VII  \ 

GRASSES 

"  Praised  be  my  Lord  for  our  mother  the  earth,  the  which 
doth  sustain  us,  and  keep  us,  and  bringeth  forth  divers  fruits, 
and  flowers  of  many  colors  and  grass." — Song  of  the  Creatures, 
by  Francis  of  Assist. 

THE  late  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  in  one  of  the 
most  exquisite  passages  of  all  his  work,  has  sug- 
gested that  homesick  longings  for  earth  may  come 
over  unreasonable  human  nature  even  in  the  courts 
of  heaven  itself,  and  that  eyes  may  turn  from  all 
the  glory  and  the  glow,  with  reminiscent  craving 
for  the  cool  color  and  graceful  billowing  of  blow- 
ing grass,  starred  with  daisies  and  with  dew. 

To  one  who  has  seen  a  region,  however  beauti- 
ful, which  lacked  grass,  the  sentences  in  which  the 
author  has  expressed  his  feeling  come  with  pecu- 
liar force.  For  no  splendor  of  semi-tropic  sun- 
shine, no  blue  of  water  and  sky,  no  grace  of 

palms,   can    compensate    to    the    landscape     for   the 

149 


150    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 


1.  Common    "crab       or 

"finger1'  grass  (Pa- 
nicum  sang-uinale). 

2.  "  Rattlesnake     grass  " 

(Glyceria    Canaden- 
sz's). 

3.  "  Red-top "'  (Agrostis  alba  vari- 

ety vulgaris). 

4.  "  Green  fox-tail "   (Setaria  vi- 

ridis), 

5.  "  Timothy,"      "  cat's-tail,"     or 

"  herd^-grass  "  (Phleunt  pra- 
tense). 

6.  "  Wild-oat  "  grass    (Danthonia 

spicata). 


FIG.  36. — Some  familiar  grasses. 


Grasses  151 

loss  of  the  humble  plants,  constantly  trodden 
under  foot  of  man,  and  chiefly  valued  for  their 
utility  as  fodder. 

In  fact,  as  Mrs.  Stowe  wrote  in  one  of  her 
Florida  letters,  "You  never  realize  what  grass  is — 
till  you  have  to  do  without  it." 

But  in  temperate  regions  grasses  give  character 
to  the  whole  landscape.  They  foster  the  wild  life 
of  the  fields,  forming  sheltering  bowers  in  which 
small  animals  hide  from  their  enemies,  and  ground- 
nesting  birds  rear  their  broods. 

Grasses  are  the  basis  of  a  large  proportion  of 
the  higher  life  of  the  globe,  for  no  family  of 
plants  equals  them  in  usefulness  as  food  for  man 
and  beast.  They  give  us  corn,  oats,  wheat, 
barley,  rye,  rice,  and  sugar.  Our  bread  comes 
directly  from  grasses,  and,  as  they  feed  the  flocks 
and  herds,  our  milk,  cheese,  butter,  meat,  and 
leather  come  from  them  indirectly. 

So  they  enter  into  close  business  relations  with 
the  farmer,  the  stock-raiser,  the  miller,  the  baker, 
the  shoemaker,  the  saddler,  and  the  exporter. 
After  the  grain  has  been  gathered,  the  stems 
which  upbore  it  are  peculiarly  adapted  for  use  in 
many  industries.  And,  lastly,  the  grasses  are 
doing,  slowly  and  continuously,  what  the  world's 


152    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

great  soldiers  have  sometimes  done  in  a  single 
battle,  for  they  are  determining  boundary  lines. 

Most  grasses  have  a  strong  rootstock,  often 
called  a  root — really  an  underground  stem.  It 
creeps  horizontally  beneath  the  surface  of  the  soil, 
sending  fibrous  roots  downward  and  leaves  and 
stems  upward.  It  survives  severe  winters  and 
parching  droughts,  and  young  blades  grow  up 
from  it  in  spring,  or  on  the  return  of  rainy 
weather. 

To  this  family  habit  we  owe,  in  great  measure, 
the  beauty  of  the  fields  and  the  life  of  grazing 
animals,  for  if  all  grasses  grew  from  seed  each 
year  cattle  would  soon  exterminate  the  very  sorts 
which  they  like  best. 

And  the  subterranean  rootstocks  of  grasses  are 
extremely  useful  as  soil  and  sand-binders  for  wave- 
beaten  and  wind-swept  regions. 

All  down  the  sandy  ocean  coasts  a  war  is 
waged,  unceasingly,  between  the  sea  and  the  land. 
The  robber-waves,  like  an  attacking  army,  seem 
forever  trying  to  overwhelm  or  to  carry  off  the 
land.  The  land  tries  to  withstand  and  repel 
them. 

Each  of  the  principal  combatants  has  formed  an 
alliance.  The  waves  are  helped  by  the  wind. 


Grasses  153 

The  land  has  its  assistants,  too, — a  humble  host, 
— whose  work  is  done  quietly,  and  chiefly  under- 
ground, but  whose  combined  aid  is  invaluable. 
These  are  the  coast-grasses,  whose  stems  bend  to 
the  winds,  but  whose  widely-penetrating  roots 
bind  the  sands  in  a  network  of  tough  fibres,  and 
defy  the  encroachments  of  the  waves. 

On  the  Atlantic  seaboard,  from  Canada  to  Vir- 
ginia, the  coastwise  sand-dunes  are  overgrown  with 
the  "  marram-grass"  or  ''sea  sand-reed"  (Fig.  37). 

Its  strong  rootstocks  often  attain  a  length  of 
twenty  feet  or  more,  and  become  closely  inter- 
woven, forming  a  netlike  mass  which  is  very  re- 
sistant to  the  force  of  wind  and  sea.  Further 
south  the  "little  panic-grass"  takes  up  the  good 
work,  and  gives  permanence  to  the  coast-lines  of 
Florida  and  the  Gulf  States.  The  running  mes- 
quit  of  Arizona  and  the  alkali-grass  of  the  plains 
help  to  hold  in  place  the  shifting  soils  of  the 
great  thirst-lands.  Several  species  of  mud-bind- 
ing grasses  give  solidity  to  the  shores  of  the 
great  lakes  and  render  the  banks  of  the  Missis- 
sippi and  its  tributaries  more  permanent  than  they 
would  otherwise  be. 

The  public  services  of  such  grasses  as  these  have 
been  acknowledged  in  high  places.  During  the 


154    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

reign  of  William  the  Third    the   English  Parliament 
passed  laws    to  preserve    two  species  of  grass  which 


FIG.  37. — "Marram-grass,"  "beach-grass,"  or  "sea-sand  reed" 

{Ammophila  arundinacea  of  Gray). 

(From  Bulletin  No.  7  of  the  U.  S.  Department  of  Agriculture,  "  American 
Grasses.1') 

act  as  sand-binders  along  the  storm-beaten  Scottish 
coast.       Severe    punishment     was    to    be     inflicted 


Grasses  155 

upon  whomsoever  should  destroy  these  good 
friends  of  the  nation,  and  even  the  possession  of 
any  of  their  stalks,  within  eight  miles  of  the 
coast,  was  a  penal  offence. 

In  Holland  like  laws  protected  the  grasses  which 
have  made  it  possible  for  the  little  country  to  hold 
the  lands  so  laboriously  wrested  from  the  North  Sea. 

Cape  Cod  folks,  once  upon  a  time,  were  legally 
compelled  to  turn  out  every  April  and  plant  mar- 
ram grass, — much  as  the  inhabitants  of  some  rural 
districts  must  give  a  certain  number  of  days'  labor, 
each  spring,  to  the  work  of  road-mending.  "Town 
and  harbor  of  Provincetown  owe  their  preservation 
to  this  grass,"  says  Lamson-Scribner. 

At  one  time  Provincetown  had  a  "beach  grass 
committee,"  whose  duty  it  was  to  enter  any  man's 
enclosure,  summer  or  winter,  and  set  out  marram, 
or  "beach-grass"  as  it  was  called,  "if  the  sand 
were  uncovered  or  movable." 

Sand-storms,  once  the  terror  of  the  town,  were 
thus  entirely  prevented. 

We  have  now  laws  for  the  protection  of  forests, 
and  it  has  been  suggested  that  government  might, 
with  equal  wisdom,  concern  itself  in  the  preserva- 
tion of  those  grasses  which  hold  together  mud-flats 
and  sandy  shores. 


156    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

For  if  such  vegetable  friends  are  wantonly  re- 
moved, or  are  allowed  to  perish,  valuable  tracts  of 
ground  are  buried  under  sand,  or  are  altogether 
washed  away,  and  harbors  are  rendered  unsafe  by 
accumulating  shoals  and  bars  of  sand  or  mud, 
brought  from  other  shores. 

Some  species  of  grass,  in  the  course  of  many 
summers,  convert  marshes  and  half-submerged 
shores  into  firm  land,  and  hence  have  been  called 
"Nature's  most  valuable  colonists." 

They  hold  territory  which  has  been  wrested  from 
the  waters,  and  which,  but  for  them,  would  speedily 
be  retaken. 

Thus  they  fix,  if  they  do  not  change,  the 
bounds  of  land  and  sea,  and  help  to  make  geog- 
raphy for  the  boys  and  girls  of  coming  generations. 

To  the  evolutionary  botanist  the  grasses  are  pe- 
culiarly interesting,  for  while  many  of  their  charac- 
teristics show  the  highest  possible  adaptation  to 
the  conditions  of  their  lives,  their  flowers  are  con- 
spicuous instances  of  degeneration. 

They  have  reached,  it  seems,  the  last  stage  in  a 
strange,  eventful  history.  It  is  surmised  that  the 
first  flowers  ever  born  into  the  young  world  had 
stamens  only,  or  a  pistil  only,  as  the  case  might 
be,  had  neither  calyx  nor  corolla,  and  were  wind- 


Grasses  157 

fertilized.  The  cone-bearing  trees  have  blossoms 
which  still  adhere  to  these  most  ancient  of  all 
floral  customs. 

Later  came  the  insect-fertilized  flowers,  with 
pretty  corollas  developed  especiaUy  to  charm  their 
winged  friends. 

The  grasses,  in  their  present  form,  seem  the 
latest  flowers  of  all.  They  have  reached  a  third 
condition,  and  after  acquiring  calyx  and  corolla 
to  please  insects,  have  abandoned  these  little  mes- 
sengers,— or  been  abandoned  by  them, — and  have 
reverted  to  the  primitive  ancestral  habit  of  depend- 
ence upon  the  wind. 

Though  the  wind  and  the  grasses  take  opposite 
sides  in  the  contest  between  earth  and  sea,  they  are, 
on  the  whole,  close  friends.  For  the  wind  is  not 
only  the  agent  for  the  cross-fertilization  of  the 
grasses.  He  is  the  master-artificer  who  has 
moulded  and  fashioned  them  in  every  part,  from 
root  to  flower. 

If  we  pick  a  spear  of  "red-top"  we  find  that  its 
stem  is  hollow.  The  hollow  stems  of  the  grasses, 
like  those  of  the  dandelion,  have  the  utmost 
strength  obtainable  with  economy  of  material,  and 
both  strength  and  economy  are  needed  in  the 
structure  of  a  stalk  which  must  uphold,  in  the 


158    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

wind-swept  fields,  a  pro- 
portionately large  and 
heavy  mass  of  bloom. 

Fine  whitish  ribs  run 
all  down  the  length  of 
the  stem.  These  are 
woody  and  give  it 
strength,  and  further  re- 
enforcements  are  lent  by 
the  bases  of  the  leaves, 
which  are  wrapped  around 
the  stem,  so  as  to  en- 
close it  in  a  series  of 
sheaths. 

Each  of  these  sheaths 
has  an  opening  all  down 
its  length,  and  is  welded 
to  the  stem  by  its  base 
only,  and  just  at  the 
point  of  junction  the 
stem  is  solid  and  swells 
into  a  knot  (Fig.  38). 

These  knots  or  "nodes," 
and  the  clasping  leaf- 
bases  also,  are  closest 

FIG.  38.— Stems  of  the  rye, 
showing  the  knots  or  "nodes."   together  near  the  ground. 

(From  the  Vegetable  World,) 


Grasses  '159 

And  the  lower  part  of  the  grass-stem,  which  Na- 
ture thus  reenforces,  is  just  the  portion  subjected 
to  the  greatest  strains  when  winds  sway  the  head 
of  blossom  above. 

The  Indian  corn,  the  giant  among  native  grasses, 
with  its  large  leaves  and  long  slender  stalk,  seems 
peculiarly  likely  to  fall  a  victim  to  the  wind.  And 
its  fibre-vascular  bundles,  which  are  water  and 
food  conduits,  might,  one  would  think,  be  squeezed 
or  crushed  by  the  swaying  of  the  breeze-rocked 
stem.  A  beautiful  provision  is  made  against  either 
of  these  mischances. 

Each  bundle,  in  the  first  place,  is  invested  by  a 
strong,  tough  bundle-sheath.  And  being  thus  well 
protected  individually,  the  bundles  are  used,  col- 
lectively, as  a  means  to  reenforce  the  stem.  For 
the  course  of  each  from  the  ground  to  the  leaf 
is  a  long  arch,  curving  outward.  To  each  bun- 
dle with  its  sheath  acts  as  a  strut,  and  if  the  bun- 
dles interweave,  as  they  do  most  beautifully,  in 
some  grasses  and  rushes  they  resemble  the  net- 
work of  girders  in  an  iron  bridge. 

A  like  adaptation  enables  the  palmetto  to  sup- 
port its  heavy  crown,  despite  the  winds  which 
blow  so  lustily  in  southern  latitudes. 

The    gales    which    bend    but    do    not    snap    the 


160    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

grass-stalk  pass  harmlessly  over  the  long,  narrow 
leaves,  which  have  taken  the  form  of  pennants  to 
meet  a  like  necessity.  For  both  grass-blade  and 
yacht-pennant  must  expose  the  largest  possible 
area  to  the  light,  and  yet  present  no  broad  sur- 
face to  be  torn  by  winds. 

These  narrow  leaves  are  born  one  by  one  along 
the  hollow  stem  which  botanists  call  a  haulm. 
They  are  traversed  by  straight  veins,  which  run 
lengthwise,  almost  parallel  to  one  another.  At  the 
point  where  the  leaf  or  "  blade"  bends  away  from 
its  sheathing-base  there  is  a  little  whitish,  semi- 
transparent  scale — the  ligule  or  "  shoe-latchet  " 

(Fig-   39). 

While  "a  grass"  is  speedily  recognized  by  the 
merest  tyro,  the  trained  botanist  is  sometimes  puz- 
zled" in  the  effort  to  identify  his  particular  grass, 
and  to  differentiate  it  from  near  relations,  which 
resemble  it  as  confusingly  as  Dromio  of  Ephesus 
resembled  Dromio  of  Syracuse.  Under  such  cir- 
cumstances the  ligule  sometimes  gives  the  clue, 
for  in  one  species  it  may  be  chopped  off  abrupt- 
ly, in  another  drawn  out  into  a  delicate  point, 
and  in  a  third  cut  into  a  fringe. 

Its  purpose  in  the  plant's  domestic  economy  is 
not  evident. 


Grasses  161 

As  grass-flowers  send  their  pollen  abroad  only  by 
the  wind,  they  have  no  need  to  lure  insect  messen- 
gers, and  hence  have  no  striking  colors,  and,  in 
most  cases,  no  perfume.  They  are  generally  very 
small,  and  are  massed  together  in  compact  groups, 


FIG.  39. — Ligula  of  millet-grass. 
(From  the  Vegetable  World.) 

which  live  in  close  propinquity  to  other  groups, 
forming  large  floral  communities. 

The  oat  of  commerce  is  a  typical  grass,  and 
from  a  study  of  its  parts  one  can  gain  knowl- 
edge on  the  structure  of  grasses  in  general. 

To   a  casual  glance    there    is   little   difference  be- 


1 62    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

tween  the  oat- blossom  and  the  grain  ready  for 
the  harvest.  The  flower-cluster  is  green.  The 
ripe  oat-cluster  or  "fruit"  is  yellow.  The  non- 
botanist  would  find  no  other  distinction  between 
flower  and  fruit.  Indeed,  he  probably  would  not 
recognize  the  flower  as  a  flower  nor  the  "fruit" 
as  a  fruit. 

What  looks  like  one  grain  in  the  oat-cluster  is 
— little  as  one  might  think  so — two  flowers,  and 
between  them  there  is  generally  a  little  white  af- 
fair, which  is  the  last  vestige  of  a  third  (Fig. 

r~=£'i-_^ 

40,  a). 

The  whole  trio  constitute  a  "spikelet."  Most 
grass-flowers  grow  thus  in  spikelets,  which  are  lit- 
tle floral  households. 

Outside  the  oat-spikelet  there  are  two  chaffy 
pointed  green  scales. 

These  are  the  "outer"  or  "empty"  glumes. 
They  correspond  to  the  involucre,  or  circle  of  lit- 
tle green  scales  which  surrounds  the  whole  head 
of  bloom  in  many  clustered  flowers  (Fig.  40,  b). 
All  grass  spikelets  are  thus  partly  or  wholly  en- 
closed in  one  or  two,  or  sometimes  more  "than  two 
empty  glumes.  Sometimes  they  are  so  small  that 
Nature  seems  in  fair  way  to  abolish  them  alto- 
gether. 


Grasses 


FIG.  40. — Oats  and  yarrow. 
<*,  A  cluster  or  "spikelet"  of  oat-blossoms;  6,  a  cluster  or  "head "of  yarrow- 
blossoms;  c,  a  single  oat-blossom    with  its  enfolding  ''glumes''- 
yarrow-blossom  with  its  attendant  "  bracteole  " 


1 64    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

Sometimes,  as  in  the  oat-blossom,  they  are  large 
enough  to  shut  the  whole  spikelet  in  between 
them. 

When  we  separate  the  empty  glumes  of  the  oat- 
spikelet  we  find  the  enclosed  flowers  (Fig.  40,  c). 
Each  is  shut  in  between  two  green  scales,  which 
are  like  the  "empty  glumes,"  but  smaller,  and 
blossom  and  scales  together  look  like  a  green  oat- 
grain. 

Scales  similar  to  these  enclose  the  blossoms  of 
all  typical  grasses.  They  are  generally  two  in  num- 
ber, and  are  sometimes  called  "  flowering  glumes" 
and  sometimes  "  paleae,"  while  Gray's  "Manual" 
calls  the  lower  and  outer  one  the  "flowering 
glume "  and  the  upper  and  inner  one  the  palet. 
However  designated,  they  correspond  to  those 
scale-like  leaves  which  stand  beside  the  florets  of 
many-clustered  flowers,  and  are  variously  named  by 
the  technical  botanist  (Fig.  40,  d\ 

At  some  fair  future  day  we  will  have,  let  us 
hope,  the  same  name  for  the  same  organ,  what- 
ever the  organism  in  which  it  occurs.  This  plan 
will  save  the  nature-student  much  tribulation,  and 
will  give  him  far  clearer  ideas  of  relationship  and 
development  than  he  can  possibly  get  under  the 
present  system. 


Grasses  165 

Meantime  we  call  these  little  green  affairs 
"  bracteoles"  when  they  stand  beside  the  florets  of 
the  yarrow  and  "  flowering  glumes"  and  "paleae" 
when  they  enclose  the  tiny  blossoms  of  the  grasses. 

But  they  occupy  a  similar  post  in  the  plant 
economy  everywhere.  They  are  humble  attend- 
ants upon  the  true  flowers,  standing  close  by  as  if 
to  guard  and  screen  them. 

We  shall  see  the  oat-blossom  itself  when  the 
flowering  glume  has  been  removed.  Its  most  con- 
spicuous parts  are  a  pistil  and  three  stamens.  The 
anthers  are  large,  as  in  all  the  grasses,  and  they 
are  balanced  like  see  -  saw  boards,  on  the  tips  of 
slender  filaments. 

So  they  oscillate  and  sway  at  the  faintest 
breath,  shaking  their  pollen  out  to  the  wind.  The 
filaments,  which  are  as  fine  as  gossamer,  are  also 
stirred  by  the  faintest  zephyr. 

And,  lastly,  the  spikelet  itself  dangles  at  the 
end  of  a  delicate  stalk,  which  forms  part  of  an 
open,  swaying  flower-cluster.  So  the  wind  has  its 
will  with  the  oat-blossoms,  and  its  force  is  used  to 
the  utmost  in  shaking  the  stamens  and  scattering 
the  pollen.  The  pollen  is  light  and  dry,  so  that 
it  can  readily  be  detached  from  the  anthers,  and 
blown  away 


1 66    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

And  the  pistil  is  especially  fitted  to  catch  the 
precious  dust  as  it  flies. 

The  stigma  is  proportionately  long  and  large, 
and  forks  into  two  parts. 

These  spread  widely  asunder,  as  if  welcoming 
the  pollen  with  open  arms;  and  they  are  hairy  and 
somewhat  glutinous,  so  that  the  golden  grains 
which  come  to  them  may  catch  and  cling. 

But  in  the  anatomy  of  grasses  and  of  oats, 
among  the  rest  we  find  hints  that  the  cooperation 
between  them  and  the  wind  has  not  always  been 
so  perfect  as  it  is  to-day. 

For  the  flowers  still  have  vestiges  of  petals,  and 
hence  we  surmise  that  once  upon  a  time  they 
lured  insects,  and  were  fertilized  by  them. 

When  the  wind  became  the  pollen  carrier  for 
the  grass  -  blossoms,  their  petals  were  no  longer 
needed  as  insect  lures.  So  they  grew  "small  by 
degrees  and  beautifully  less." 

Some  grasses  have  thre'e  of  these  moementoes  of 
bygone  glories,  others  have  only  two  (Fig.  41). 
They  are  minute  affairs,  transparent  or  translu- 
cent, and  very  pretty  under  a  low  -  power  micro- 
scope even  in  their  present  degradation.  When 
the  stamens  and  pistil  are  matured  these  reminis- 
cences of  petals  become  succulent,  and  thus  force 


Grasses 


.67 


palet  and  flowering  glume  apart,  so  that  the 
stamens  can  dangle  out  to  the  wind,  and  the 
pistil  can  reach  abroad  for  pollen. 

And  by  thus  making  themselves  useful  in  a  new 
capacity  the  superseded  petals  have 
saved  their  lives. 

Had  they  been  less  versatile  they 
might  have  shared  the  fate  of  some 
sedge  petals,  which  have  shrivelled 
and  shrunk  to  the  vanishing  point. 

When  the  pistil  has  been  fertil- 
ized, the  flowering  glume  and  palet 

close  together  again  and  form  a  pro- 

FIG.  41.  —  Single 
tective  covering  for  the  ripening  fruit,      flower  of  a  grass, 

showing  two  ves- 

The  ovary  has  but   one  ovule,  so     tigial  petals, three 

stamens,     and 

this    fruit    contains    but    one     seed,      ovary   with   two 

plume-like  styles. 

It  is  wrapped  in  two  coats,  as  seeds 

generally  are,  and  outside  these  are  three  more  coats, 

which  constitute  the  envelopes  of  the  fruit. 

The  whole  affair  is  known  to  botany  as  a 
"  caryopsis,"  and  to  the  general  public  as  a  grain 
(Fig.  42).  The  innermost  integument  clings  tight- 
ly to  the  seed,  and  each  succeeding  one  adheres 
to  the  one  beneath  it.  They  peel  off  with  diffi- 
culty, still  clinging  together,  so  that  the  grain  ap- 
pears to  have  a  single  tough  skin. 


1 68    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

Just  inside  the  innermost  skin  of  the  wheat- 
grain  there  is  a  layer  of  nitrogenous  substance,  far 
richer  in  nutriment  than  the  starchy  sub- 
stances which  lie  beneath  it.  When  the 
integuments  of  the  wheat-grain  are  torn 
off,  this  nutritive  "aleurone"  layer  is  apt 
to  come  away  with  them.  But  any  proc- 
ess of  milling  which  can  keep  the 
aleurone  with  the  starchy  inner  part  of 
the  grain  will  produce  a  flour  highly  nu- 
FIG.  42.  —  tritive  in  proportion  to  its  bulk. 

Caryop- 

sis  of  the       The  parts  of  the  grasses  are  simple  and 

wheat. 

(Fr5OI»    the   few    but  Nature    can  so  vary  their  forms 

Vegetable  J 

and  their  arrangement  that  botanists  rec- 
ognize about  four  thousand  species,  of  which  over 
two  hundred  and  sixty  grow  east  of  the  Rockies. 

The  number  of  flowers  in  each  spikelet  varies 
greatly  in  different  species.  Sometimes  there  are 
a  dozen  or  more — sometimes  there  is  but  one, 
with  rudiments  and  traces  of  others  above  it. 
The  spikelets  may  be  ranged  down  one  side  of 
a  main  axis  in  compact,  straight  rows;  they 
may  surround  the  axis,  as  they  do  in  "  timothy  " 
grass,  forming  a  cylinder  of  bloom,  or  they  may 
dangle,  as  the  oat-spikelets  do,  at  the  tips  of 
slender  branchlets,  which  form  part  of  larger  sprays. 


Grasses  169 

Thus  the  whole  mass  of  bloom  may  be  loose  and 
spreading,  like  that  of  the  red-top,  or  it  may  be 
narrow  and  compressed. 

Sometimes  the  empty  glumes  end  in  a  long, 
bristle-like  point,  called  an  awn. 

Often  the  flowering  glume  is  provided  with  an 
awn,  which  may  be  straight,  or  curved,  or  twisted. 

The  problem  of  providing  some  mode  of  con- 
veyance for  the  seed  has  been  solved  by  Nature, 
for  various  grasses,  in  ways  as  various. 

The  "hedge-hog"  or  '*  sand-bur"  grass,  com- 
mon in  alluvial  lands,  has  converted  its  outer 
glumes  into  thorny  coverings  for  the  fruit  (Fig. 

43)- 

These    catch    hold    of   everything  and   everybody, 

and  succeed  so  well  in  spreading  the  species  that 
it  has  become  a  most  troublesome  weed. 

Uncle  Sam  warns  farmers  against  it,  and  even 
the  text-book,  forgetful  of  scholastic  calm,  dubs  it 
vile. 

The  squirrel-tail  grass  long  ago  bore  three-flow- 
ered spikelets  (Fig.  44).  But  now  the  side-blossoms 
of  each  trio  have  dwindled  away,  and  the  empty 
glumes  below  them  have  undergone  a  transformation 
to  subserve  the  general  good,  and  become  long  bris- 
tles, which  enable  the  matured  fruit  to  blow  away. 


170    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

As  grass-pollen  is  carried  about  among  the  blos- 
soms by  the  wind  much  of  it  is  liable  to  be 
dropped  and  wasted. 


FIG.  43. — Sand-bur  grass  (Ctnchms  tribiiloides). 

a  and  3,  the  bur  ready  to  travel ;  r,  the  pair  of  flowers,  i  staminate  and  i  perfect. 
(From  Bulletin  No.  7  of  the  U.  S.  Department  of  Agriculture,  ''American 
Grasses.") 

In  some  species  Nature  makes  good  this  loss 
beforehand  by  furnishing  a  double  supply  of  the 
life  giving  grains. 


Grasses 


171 


FIG.  44. — Squirrel-tail  grass  (Hordeum  jubatum\ 
a,  a  magnified  spikelet  ;  £,  a  magnified  flower. 


172    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

The  too  familiar  sand-bur,  for  instance,  bears 
spikelets  which  are  each  a  pair  of  flowers,  one  with 
both  stamens  and  pistil,  and  one  with  stamens 
only.  The  blossom  of  the  rice  has  six  stamens, 
and  a  few  grass-flowers  have  more  than  six. 

But  generally  and  typically  there  are  three,  for  the 
grasses  are  distantly  related  to  the  lilies,  and  have 
no  connection  whatever  with  the  rose  and  her  kin. 

The  pistils  of  many  grass-flowers  do  not  mature 
till  the  stamens  round  about  them  are  empty  and 
shrivelled. 

But  the  wind  which  has  carried  off  the  home- 
grown pollen  will  probably  bring  some  to  the  wait- 
ing stigma  from  a  neighboring  plume  of  the  same 
species  of  grass. 

Unless  the  wind  thus  makes  restitution  for  the 
goods  he  has  snatched  away,  these  grasses  will  bring 
no  fruit  to  perfection.  But  if  they  form  seed  the 
young  plants  which  spring  from  it  will  have  the 
advantage  which  double  parentage  gives  the  seedling 
in  its  struggle  for  life. 

The  anthers  and  stigmas  of  the  wheat  mature 
together,  but  the  flowers  only  expand  partially,  and 
remain  open  for  but  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  The 
blossom  appears  from  the  glumes  suddenly,  scatter- 
ing some — not  all — of  its  pollen. 


Grasses  173 

As  the  glumes  close  over  the  pistil  so  soon, 
the  wind  has  little  time  in  which  to  bring  it  pollen 
from  other  wheat-blossoms,  and  it  is  often  obliged 
to  use  the  remnant  which  the  stamens  have  kept. 
With  this  it  can  produce  good  seed. 

The  flowering  period  of  the  whole  spike  of  blos- 
soms lasts  four  days,  but  since  each  flower  blooms 
for  but  the  quarter  of  an  hour  a  very  small  propor- 
tion of  them  are  expanded  at  any  one  time. 

One  of  the  marked  characteristics  of  all  grass- 
flowers  is  their  evanescence;  no  blossoms  are  so 
short  lived. 

During  their  brief  time  of  blooming  a  few 
species  are  visited  by  insects.  The  hospitality 
shown  to  these  little  guests  is  perhaps  a  last 
survival  of  an  ancient  family  custom,  a  lingering 
memory  of  a  time  when  the  grasses  habitually  en- 
tertained a  miscellaneous  winged  company,  and  the 
wind  was  by  no  means  their  only  hope. 

"  I  have  often  observed  a  small  fly  busy  upon 
the  anthers  of  various  grasses,"  says  Miiller,  "and 
at  least  two  species  are  visited  by  beetles." 

The  giants  of  the  tribe  are  the  bamboos,  which,  in 
their  tropic  homes,  attain  a  height  of  fifty  or  sixty 
feet,  while  even  those  which  grow  in  Florida  gardens 
cast  their  swaying  shadows  on  the  houses'  eaves. 


174 


Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 


FIG.  45. — Common  reed  (Phragmites  communis). 
(From  Farmers'  Bulletin  86,  U.  S.  Department  of  Agriculture.) 


Grasses  175 

But  these  are  naturalized  foreigners.  A  great  gap 
separates  them  from  the  tallest  native  grasses,  the 
Indian  corn,  the  wild  rice,  and  the  reeds  (Fig.  45). 

Few  popular  names  are  more  loosely  used  than 
this  term  "reed."  It  is  applied  to  large  grasses 
of  several  species  and  to  the  cat-tail  flags  which  are 
not  grasses  at  all.  But  the  true  reed  of  classic 
story  and  of  modern  verse  is  the  phragmites  corn- 
munis  y  whose  spears  of  bloom,  sometimes  twelve 
feet  tall,  are  conspicuous  objects  in  latter  summer, 
on  the  edges  of  ponds  and  streams.  The  plant 
looks,  from  a  distance,  like  broom-corn. 

Its  many  broad  leaves  and  feathery  head  of 
blossom  are  swayed  by  the  faintest  breath,  so  that 
"there  are  not  many  things  in  Nature,"  says  Ste- 
venson, "more  striking  to  man's  eye  than  the 
shivering  of  the  reeds.  It  is  such  an  eloquent 
pantomime  of  terror;  and  to  see  such  a  number  of 
terrified  creatures  in  every  nook  along  the  shore  is 
enough  to  infect  a  silly  human  with  alarm." 

Their  dumb  fear  was  noticed  by  the  people  of 
the  classic  world,  who  accounted  for  it  by  a  legend. 

There  was  a  certain  nymph  called  Syrinx,  who 
was  much  beloved  by  the  satyrs  and  the  spirits  of 
the  wood. 

She    would    have    none    of    them,    for   she    was    a 


176    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

faithful  worshipper  of  Diana  and  loved  only  the 
chase.  In  her  hunting  dress  she  looked  like 
Diana's  very  self,  save  that  her  bow  was  of  horn 
and  Diana's  was  of  silver. 

One  day,  as  she  returned  from  the  hunt,  she 
was  pursued  by  passionate  Pan,  who  had  long 
sighed  for  her. 

Just  as  he  overtook  her  she  cried  for  help  to  her 
friends,  the  water  nymphs. 

They  heard  the  prayer,  and  granted  it,  so  that 
Pan,  who  had  pursued  a  maiden,  clasped  only  a 
tuft  of  reeds. 

As  he  breathed  a  sigh  the  air  sounded  through 
the  reeds  and  produced  a  plaintive  melody.  The 
god  was  charmed  with  the  sweetness  of  the  music. 
He  bound  together  bits  of  reed  of  unequal  length 
and  made  that  primitive  wind  instrument  which  he 
called  a  ''syrinx,"  in  honor  of  the  loved  and  lost 
Arcadian  nymph. 

But  her  fear  dwells  ever  in  the  reeds,  and  so 
does  the  music  of  Pan.  "  He  once  played  upon 
their  foremother,"  says  Stevenson,  "and  so,  by  the 
hand  of  his  rivers,  he  still  plays  upon  these  later 
generations,  and  plays  the  same  air,  both  sweet 
and  shrill,  to  tell  us  of  the  beauty  and  the  terror 
of  the  world." 


CHAPTER    VIII 
RUSHES  AND   SEDGES 

"When  as  the  breezes  pass 
The  gleaming  rushes  lean  a  thousand  ways." 

— Lowell. 

THE  wind  has  many  fosterlings  in  the  out- 
door world,  but  the  grasses,  rushes,  and  sedges  are, 
in  a  peculiar  sense,  his  own. 

The  grasses  grow  in  prairies  and  open  fields. 
The  rushes  are  most  abundant  on  roadsides  and 
river-shores,  and  in  bogs  and  moist  meadows,  and 
while  some  sedges  live  on  the  low-lying  banks  of 
brooks  and  ditches,  others  are  found  in  marshes, 
on  sea-beaches,  and  on  mountain-tops,  above  the 
tree-line.  So  the  grasses,  rushes,  and  sedges 
generally  prefer  the  breeziest  situations  which  the 
countryside  affords. 

The  wind  is  the  author  of  their  being,  for 
their  flowers,  for  untold  generations,  have  been 
wind-fertilized. 

And      the     wind    has     moulded    them,     for     the 

177 


178    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 


FIG.  46. — Five  familiar  water-rushes. 

i,  funcus  bufonius  ;   2.  Juncus  tennis.    3.  Juncus  Greemi ;   4,  Juncus 
or  "  soft-rush  ";  5,  Juncus  articulatus. 


Rushes  and  Sedges  179 

rushes  and  sedges,  like  the  grasses,  have  long, 
narrow  leaves  and  swaying  stems,  so  that  gales 
can  pass  through  and  over  them,  leaving  them  un- 
harmed. 

The  rushes  were  apparently  the  last  of  these 
three  families  to  be  adopted  by  the  wind.  Their 
flowers  are  small  and  humble,  but  the  unlearned 
in  botany  would  recognize  them  as  flowers  indeed, 
still  showing  a  distinct  likeness  to  their  far-off 
cousins,  the  lilies.  In  the  sedges  the  six  leaves 
of  the  lily  flower  have  become  curiously  changed 
or  have  been  abolished  altogether,  and  certain  an- 
cestral traits  are  wellnigh  obliterated. 

So  the  Nature-student  will  find  the  rushes  the 
more  approachable  family  of  the  two,  and  an  ac- 
quaintance with  them  will  prove  the  best  means  of 
introduction  to  the  sedges,  their  distant  cousins. 

We  somehow  expect  a  rush  to  be  a  vegetable 
of  imposing  proportions.  Perhaps  this  is  because 
the  name  is  often  given  to  the  stately  cat-tail 
flags. 

But  the  true  rushes — in  our  latitudes,  at  least — 
are  small  affairs.  The  tallest  are  barely  four  feet 
high,  and  the  least  form  a  close  mat  upon  the 
ground,  in  moist  and  sunny  places. 

They   are   broadly  divided    into  two   groups,   the 


180    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

"  water-"  and  the 
t(  wood  "-rushes,  and  a 
tyro  can  refer  his  par- 
ticular specimen  to  its 
own  group  at  a  glance, 
for  all  the  water-rushes 
are  smooth  and  all  the 
wood-rushes  are  hairy 

(Fig.   47)- 

Both  sorts  have  round,  taper- 
ing blossom-stems,  sometimes 
hollow,  but  generally  filled  with 
a  continuous  fine,  white  pith. 

In  old  times  this  pith  served 
for  the  wicks  of  the  "  rush- 
lights "  which  made  darkness 
visible  to  our  great-grand- 
fathers, and  whose  inadequacy 
fostered  the  habits  of  early 
getting  to  bed,  now  abandoned 
by  a  generation  of  night-owls, 
abetted  by  gas  and  electricity. 

The  leaves  of  the  water- 
rushes  are  generally  round, 
smooth,  and  glossy,  and  those 
FIG.  47.— A  wood-rush  of  many  species  resemble 

(Lazula  campestris).  .  .,  .    , 

,  Unripe  seed-vessel  cut  across;      the         SteiUS          in          all          points, 
ripened  and  emptied  seed-vessel. 


Rushes  and  Sedges  181 

save  that  they  wear  no  crown  of  buds  and 
flowers. 

In  some  of  our  commonest  water-rushes  the 
leaves  are  reduced  to  sheaths,  and  they  merely  enT 
fold  the  base  of  the  flower-stalk,  which  has  as- 
sumed all  their  duties  in  the  vegetable  economy, 
besides  fulfilling  its  own.  In  the  skin  of  this 
doubly-useful  flower-stalk  there  are  many  stomata, 
and  beneath  the  skin  are  cells  filled  with  chloro- 
phyll, so  that  the  whole  surface-tissue  transpires 
and  digests,  as  do  the  green  parts  of  foliage  leaves. 

Though  the  flowering  stems  of  most  rushes  are 
filled  with  pith,  their  tubular  leaves  are  often  hol- 
low, and  those  of  many  species  are  kept  in  shape 
by  an  interesting  little  contrivance. 

If  you  draw  one  of  these  leaves  slowly  between 
thumb  and  finger,  compressing  it  closely  meantime, 
you  feel  that  there  are  little  lumps  or  knots  in  its 
inner  substance.  And  if  you  split  it  lengthwise 
with  a  penknife  you  find  that  there  are  green  gird- 
ers extending  across  the  internal  hollow  and  placed 
at  regular  distances  apart  (Fig.  48).  The  members 
of  the  family  which  bear  such  foliage  as  this  are 
called  "knotty-leaved  rushes." 

Their  structure  furnishes  an  answer  to  the  me- 
chanical problem  "devise  some  economical  means 


1  82    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

to    prevent   a    cylinder    of    delicate    tissue    from  col- 
lapsing." 

The  same  problem  has  occurred  in  the  organiza- 
tion of  some  seaweeds,  and  has  been 
solved  by  Nature  in  almost  the  same 
way. 

There  are  no  eccentricities  or  compli- 
cations in  the  leaves  of  the  wood-rushes, 
which  are  flat,  hairy  and  grass-like. 

The  flowers  of  all  the  rushes  are  borne 
in  a  large,  loose  cluster. 

This    cluster  generally    tops     the     stem, 
and  beside  the  flowers  are  a  pair    or   trio 
or   circle   of    slender,   green    spears,    which 
*  ^  together    constitute  the   "  involucre." 


wise   sec-       T          .  r,          ,    ,,      ,. 

tion      of      In    the    common     "  soft-rush        the    m- 

the  tubu-  ,'  .  •       i      i      r 

larleaf  of  volucre    consists   of  a  single  leaf. 

ty  -  leav"  This  pokes  up  aggressively,  prolonging 
'  the  line  of  the  stalk,  so  that  the  flower 
cluster  is  thrust  from  its  place  and  dangles  down 
sidewise.  But,  despite  appearances  to  the  contrary, 
the  blossoms  crown  the  stem,  after  the  custom  of 
the  rushes,  and  all  above  them  is  a  single  "  involu- 
cral  leaf." 

The  flowers  of  the  wood-  and  water-rushes  are 
all  of  the  same  lily-  like  type.  There  are  three 


Rushes  and  Sedges  183 

green  sepals,  with  semi-transparent  edges  (Fig.  49) 
touched  with  brown  or  rose,  and  three  petals, 
which  are  often  chaffy  and  semi-transparent  through- 
out. Some  rushes  have  three  stamens,  some  have 
six,  and  at  the  heart  of  the  flower  is  the  pistil 
with  three  feathery  stigmas  spread  abroad  like  the 
lines  in  the  letter  Y.  These  are  often  rosy-red, 
and  their  little  plumes  glisten  like  spun-glass,  so 
that  the  flowers  are  pretty,  even  now,  when  the 
colors  have  faded  from  their  petals.  They  close, 
finally  and  in  conclusion,  soon  after  they  are 
picked,  so  that  one  who  would  identify  the  species 
had  better  take  his  "key"  into  the  fields. 

One  of  the  wood-rushes  still  shows  remarkable 
approximation  to  the  conditions  of  insect-fertilized 
flowers,  and  two  of  them  are  visited,  now  and 
then,  by  insects. 

It  seems  probable  that  the  little  petals,  now  sere 
and  translucent,  were  once  soft  in  texture  and 
lovely  in  hue. 

In  those  days  insects  may  have  "  visited  around  " 
among  the  rushes  numerously  and  often. 

But  the  petals  and  sepals  which  the  flowers  wear 
nowadays  are  ineffective  for  display  or  allure- 
ment,— and  seem  to  be  produced  merely  for 
"old  sake's  sake." 


184    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 


FIG.  49.  —  Flower  cluster  and  flower  analysis  of  a  common  water- 
rush  {Juncus  articulattis}. 
i,  The   blossom  seen  from  above  ;    2,  the  blossom  seen  from  one  side  ;   3,  the 

nearly  ripe  seed-vessel  sectioned  across  ;  4,  the  ripened  and  empty  seed-vessel 

sectioned  across. 


Rushes  and  Sedges  185 

The  rush  flowers  are  very  dependent  upon  their 
present  messenger,  the  wind,  for  the  pistils,  in 
most  of  the  species,  ripen  first.  So  they  are 
ready  for  pollen  before  the  home-grown  pollen  is 
ready  for  them,  and  must  use  the  life-giving  dust 
which  is  blown  to  them  from  older  flowers. 

The  ripe  pollen  is  smooth  and  powdery,  so  that 
it  may  readily  be  detached  by  the  wind  and 
borne  away,  but  the  anthers  do  not  sway  at 
the  lips  of  slender  filaments,  as  they  do  in  the 
thorough  -  going  wind  -  fertilized  blossoms  of  the 
grasses. 

The  seeds  of  the  wood-rushes  are  matured  by 
midsummer. 

Those  of  the  water-rushes  are  not  ripe  till 
August  or  September. 

Both  sorts  are  borne  in  dry  capsules,  which  split 
into  three  valves,  setting  the  seeds  free. 

But  the  wood-rush  capsules  have  just  three  seeds 
apiece,  while  those  of  the  water-rushes  contain  a 
large  number. 

It  is  not  uncommon  for  water-loving  plants  to 
put  a  relatively  enormous  progeny  forth  upon  the 
world,  for  seedlings  which  cannot  thrive  unless 
they  keep  their  feet  wet  are  peculiarly  the  victims 
of  chance  and  change.  Many  will  begin  life  in 


1 86    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 


dry  ground,  where  they  will  speedily  wither  away 
because  they  lack  moisture;  and  even  those  which 
have  the  luck  to  fall  into  water  or  mud  find 
life  full  of  uncertainties.  The  rivers  which  they 
love  shift  their  courses,  the  brooks  and  ponds  dry 
up,  the  swamps  are  drained. 

Wood-rush  seeds  can  settle  and  thrive  in  any 
piece  of  open  wood-  or  meadow-land. 

But  in  regulating  the  affairs  of  the  water-rushes, 
cat-tail  flags  and  pickerel-weed,  Nature  provides 
beforehand  for  an  altogether  probable  slaughter 
of  the  innocents. 

Under  the  microscope  the  seeds  borne  by  several 
of  the  water-rushes  show  a  delicate  cross-bar  pat- 

2  tern  in  high  relief,  and 
some  are  tipped  with 
a  queer  little  horn 

Olnri        £Faga  (Flg"  5°)- 

QfSl  In  latter  summer  the 

cells  which  go  to  make 
up  these  cross-bars  and 
horns  become  converted 
into  mucilage.  At  first 
this  mucilage  is  dry  and 
hard,  but  it  can  absorb  a  great  quantity  of  water, 
and  as  it  does  so  it  becomes  soft  and  swells 


FIG.  50. — Rush-seeds. 
\,Juncus  Greenii :  2,  Juncus  tenuis. 


Rushes  and  Sedges  187 

astonishingly.  The  first  heavy  autumnal  rains  give 
it  an  opportunity  to  exercise  its  capabilities. 

In  the  moist  atmosphere  the  ridges  and  horns 
dissolve,  and  the  seeds  become  embedded  in  a 
mass  of  viscid  jelly.  The  mass  swells  up,  forces 
its  way  through  the  slits  in  the  now  opened  cap- 
sule, and  carries  the  seeds  out  with  it.  By  ex- 
posure to  air  and  sun  the  mucilage  becomes  brit- 
tle and  powdery.  Then  the  seeds  are  readily  de- 
tached from  it  and  carried  off  by  autumn  gales  to 
seek  their  fortunes. 

One  would  think  that  this  method  of  seed  dis- 
tribution might  be  unique.  But  it  has  been 
adopted  also  by  a  little  flower  called  "yellow- 
eyed-grass"  (Xyris  flexuosa),  which  often  lives  as 
neighbor  to  the  water-rushes,  and  so  must  adapt 
itself  to  similar  conditions.  Yet  the  cousinship  be- 

I 

tween  these  two  plant  families  is  of  that  remote 
degree  which  in  human  relations  "counts  for  noth- 
ing "  north  of  Mason  and  Dixon's  line. 

The  seeds  of  both  water-rushes  and  yellow- 
eyed-grass  are  small  and  light,  so  that  they  can 
be  blown  far  afield  in  quest  of  an  abiding  place, 
and  they  are  long  and  narrow,  and  hence  expose 
a  large  proportionate  surface  to  the  wind. 

The    ripe    seed  vessels    of  all    the   rushes   are  sur- 


1 88    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

rounded  by  the  dry  petals  and  sepals  of  the  little 
flower,  and  by  the  same  token  we  can  always  dis- 
tinguish a  rush  from  the  wind's  other  fosterlings 
afield  (Fig.  51). 

The  sedges  can  readily  be  recognized  and  known 
from  the  grasses,  their  next  of  kin,  for  grass-stems 
are  usually  hollow  and  always  round,  while  those 
of  the  sedges  are  solid,  and,  at  least  toward  their 
tips,  triangular.  Moreover,  sedges  grow  in  tus- 
socks, and  grasses  form  a  close,  continuous  mat 
upon  the  ground. 

The  bases  of  sedge  -  leaves  are  not  merely 
wrapped  about  the  stem,  after  the  fashion  of 
the  grasses,  but  they  form  seamless,  tubular 
sheaths,  which  invest  it  closely. 

In  old  England  all  sedges  were  included  under 
the  name  of  "shear-grass,"  a  term  applied  to 
them  on  account  of  the  sharp  or  scissor-like  edges 
of  their  narrow  leaves. 

The  same  characteristic  got  them  the  name  by 
which  we  know  them,  for  "sedge"  and  "saw" 
are  both  derived  from  an  old  Teutonic  word, 
which  means  "to  cut." 

The  leaves  are  disposed  along  the  stem  in  what 
is  known  as  the  "three-ranked  arrangement,"  the 
fourth,  as  one  counts  upward,  being  directly 


Rushes  and  Sedges 


FIG,  51.— Some  New  England  sedges. 

i,  Eleocharis  tuberculosa,  "spike-rush";  2,  Eriphorum  alpinum  "cotton- 
grass'1;  3  Carex  grisea ;  4,  Eriphorum  polystachyon,  "cotton-grass";  5, 
Larex  trtbuloides ;  6,  Carex  crinita  ;  7,  Carex  stipata  ;  8,  Scirpus  sylvati- 
cus,  the  true  bul-rush  "  (in  fruit)  ;  9,  Scirfus  sylvaticus  (in  flower)  ;  10,  Carex 
lupuhna. 


190    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

above  the  first  and  the  fifth  above  the  second, 
so  that  if  one  should  draw  a  line  through  the 
bases  of  the  leaves  it  would  intersect  three  in 
the  course  of  one  complete  spiral  turn. 

The  number  three  dominates  the  sedges  through- 
out their  organization.  It  occurs  repeatedly,  or  is 
traced  obscurely,  in  their  flowers,  for  they  are 
lily-kin.  Inferentially  the  ancestors  of  all  the 
sedges  had  three  pistils,  or  a  single  pistil  divid- 
ing into  three  stigmas,  three  stamens,  or  six,  in 
two  trios,  three  petals,  and  three  sepals.  They 
were,  in  many  respects,  like  the  rushes  of  to- 
day. 

But  their  descendants  have  departed,  more  or 
less  widely,  from  the  ancient  family  traditions. 
For  some  species  have  but  two  stigmas,  whole 
groups  have  two  stamens,  or  manage  to  get  along 
with  one,  and  two  tribes  bear  stamens  in  one 
flower  and  pistils  in  another. 

Sedge-blossoms  grow  in  spikes,  clumps,  or  clus- 
ters, massed  together  so  closely  that  their  calyxes 
and  corollas,  when  they  possess  any,  are  utterly  in- 
effective. 

But  as  the  wind  is  their  sole  messenger,  nowa- 
days, there  is  no  reason  why  they  should  allure 
and  charm  insects,  as  their  ancestors  may  have 


Rushes  and  Sedges  191 

done  in  the  days  of  old.  The  florets,  like  those 
of  the  cat-tail  flags,  have  undergone  a  change  of 
form  in  connection  with  changed  circumstances. 
In  those  sedge-flowers  which  bear  stamens  only, 
the  calyx  and  corolla,  no  longer  needed  for  any 
purpose,  have  vanished  utterly  away. 

But  the  sepals  and  petals  of  the  perfect  floret 
borne  by  many  sedges  have  had  another  job 
offered  them  by  Nature,  and  have  saved  them- 
selves from  extinction  by  acquiring  usefulness  in  a 
new  capacity.  In  process  of  time  they  have 
become  adapted  to  aid  in  the  great  work  of  seed 
distribution. 

One  of  the  stateliest  of  native  sedges  is  the 
so-miscalled  "wool-grass,"  which  is  a  conspicuous 
object  in  wet  fields  during  the  latter  summer. 
The  large  and  graceful  tassel  of  bloom  is  com- 
posed of  innumerable  soft,  brown  lumps,  not 
much  larger  than  grains  of  barley.  If  we  pick 
one  of  these  apart,  under  a  lens  we  shall  find 
that  it  is  a  compact  mass  of  overlapping  scales 
(Fig.  52). 

Under  each  scale  is  a  single  flower,  with  three 
stamens,  and  a  long,  slender  pistil  dividing  into 
three  stigmas. 

By    August    the    stamens    have    withered    away, 


192    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 


FIG.  52. — From  low-lying  fields. 

i,  "  Wool-grass  "  (Eriopharum  cyperinum) ;  2,  the  fruit  with  surrounding  hairs; 
3,  "beak-rush"  (Rhynchospora  glomerata)\  4,  a  cluster  of  flowers  and  scales 
of  the  u  beak-rush  M  ;  5,  its  ripe  fruit  with  accompanying  bristles. 


Rushes  and  Sedges  193 

after  accomplishing  their  life-work.  The  pistil  has 
done  its  work,  too.  It  is  now  a  fruit,  ripe  and 
ready  to  travel,  for  around  it  are  six  long  hairs, 
which  are  the  petals  and  sepals,  altered  over  into  a 
flying  apparatus.  In  the  "beak-rush,"  which  we 
may  find  growing  near  the  "wool-grass,"  calyx  and 
corolla  have  undergone  an  equally  great  but 
wholy  different  adaptation. 

They  are  converted  into  barbed  bristles,  which 
catch  hold  where  and  when  they  can,  and  thus 
help  the  seed  along  in  the  world. 

The  calyx  and  corolla  of  the  pretty  "cotton- 
grass"  are  changed,  like  those  of  the  "wool- 
grass,"  into  long  streamers,  which  lengthen  as  the 
seed  matures,  and  become  a  tuft  of  creamy  fila- 
ments, an  inch  or  two  in  length.  They  make  this 
sedge  a  conspicuous  and  beautiful  object  in  low- 
lying  fields,  when  olive  and  bronze  shades  begin 
to  replace  the  vivid  greens  of  the  earlier  year 

(Fig-  SO- 

The  true  "bulrush"  and  the  "spike-rush" 
(Fig.  51),  which  are  both  sedges,  in  spite  of  their 
misleading  names,  have  adopted  the  beak-rush's 
plan,  and  changed  their  petals  and  sepals  into 
toothed  bristles,  which  look,  through  the  micro- 
scope, like  narrow  saw-blades. 


194    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

Most  of  our  native  sedges  belong  to  one  great 
group,  the  genus  Carex.  Its  various  members 
generally  grow  in  moist  places  and  blossom  in  the 
spring,  so  that  their  seeds  are  set,  and  often 
ripened,  too,  by  midsummer. 

"A  carex"  can  be  recognized  afield  by  the  tyro, 
but  the  correct  identification  of  the  particular  carex 
in  question  is  quite  another  matter.  For  the  species 
are  so  difficult  to  distinguish  one  from  another,  vary 
so  perplexingly,  and  blend  into  one  another  so 
confusingly,  that  they  can  confound  the  experienced 
naturalist.  In  most  carices  the  stamens  and  pistils 
are  borne  in  separate  flowers,  which  grow  upon  the 
same  plant. 

In  one  large  section  of  them  the  two  kinds  of 
flowers  grow  on  the  same  spike,  which  is  staminate 
at  its  apex,  and  pistillate  below,  or,  as  Tweedle- 
dee  was  wont  to  remark,  li  contrariwise. " 

In  another  large  section  the  staminate  flowers 
grow  in  a  spike  by  themselves,  at  the  tip-top  of 
the  sedge,  while  the  pistillate  blossoms,  in  modest 
groups,  occupy  lower  places  (Fig.  53). 

Each  flower  of  either  sex  is  sheltered  and  al- 
most concealed  by  a  green  scale.  The  staminate 
flowers  have  no  calyces  nor  corollas  at  all,  not 
even  reminiscent  ones  of  saw-blades  or  bristles. 


Rushes  and  Sedges 


195 


FIG.  53-— A  typical  carex  (Carex  hystricina). 

i,  A  staminate   flower  with  its  scale ;    2,  a  pistellate  flower  with  its  scale  •   * 
cross-section  of  the  perigynium,  showing  the  fruit  within.     (All  magnified.) 


196    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

Each  is  reduced  to  its  lowest  terms,  and  is 
merely  a  trio  of  stamens. 

Its  flower-affinity  consists  of  a  pistil,  borne  on 
a  short  stalk,  and  partly  or  completely  surrounded 
by  a  tiny  green  bract.  The  pistil  forks  at  its  tip 
into  two  or  three  long  stigmas,  which  reach  over  the 
tiny  bract  close  to  them  and  the  larger  scale  below 
and  wait  for  the  pollen  messages  which  the  wind 
will  bring  to  them  from  other  sedges.  After  the 
pollen  has  come,  the  stigmas,  having  served  their 
purpose,  wither  away.  At  about  the  same  time 
the  tiny  bract  which  has  invested  the  pistil  in- 
creases greatly  in  size,  and  by  latter  summer  it 
becomes  an  inflated  flask-shaped  sac,  enclosing  the 
ripening  fruit.  This  sac  is  known  as  the  "perigy- 
nium,"  and  is  one  of  the  distinguishing  marks  of 
the  Carex  family.  Some  botanists  regard  it  as  the 
sepals  and  petals  of  the  sedge-flower,  joined  to- 
gether, and  altered  out  of  knowledge. 

Inside  the  perigynium  there  is  a  hard  lens-shaped 
or  triangular  body,  which  we  should  incline  to  call 
a  seed.  But,  small  though  it  be,  it  is  the  ripened 
ovary,  and  hence  a  fruit. 

The  sedges,  unlike  the  grasses,  are  a  useless 
family.  They  are  of  small  value  to  man,  and 
their  leaves  and  stems  contain  so  little  nutritious 


Rushes  and  Sedges  197 

matter  that  they  are  seldom  eaten  by  grazing  ani- 
mals. Indeed,  in  the  whole  great  family  of  two 
thousand  species  there  are  but  three  useful  mem- 
bers. 

The  chufa,  a  native  of  the  Mediterranean  shores, 
is  sometimes  cultivated  for  the  sake  of  its  small, 
sweet  tubers. 

Another  sedge,  the  Cyperus  textilus,  is  used  in 
India  for  making  ropes  and  mats.  It  is  nearly  re- 
lated to  the  most  useful  and  celebrated  of  all  the 
sedges — the  Cyperus  papyrus,  or  paper-reed  of  old 
Egypt.  The  Hebrew  name  for  this  plant  occurs 
in  the  Old  Testament  account  of  the  hiding  of  the 
infant  Moses,  and  has  been  rendered  "Bull-rush" 
in  the  English  Bible. 

This  sedge  provided  cheap  and  convenient  writ- 
ing material  for  the  ancient  world.  "  Papyrus," 
says  an  excellent  authority,  "was  made  of  the 
inner  cuticle  of  the  stalk,  which  was  separated  into 
thin  strips.  These  were  laid  side  by  side,  with 
another  layer  of  strips  crossing  them  at  right 
angles.  The  two  layers,  thus  prepared,  were 
soaked  in  water,  then  pressed  together  to  make 
them  adhere,  and  dried.  For  books  the  papyrus 
was  formed  into  rolls,  by  cementing  together  a 
number  of  sheets." 


198    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

The  manufactured  papyrus  was  called  "  papu  " 
by  the  Egyptians,  and  hence  our  word  paper. 
Herodotus  calls  it  byblis,  whence  the  Greek 
''book"  and  our  "  bible." 

So  sedges,  in  their  humble  way,  have  helped  to 
pass  the  treasures  of  thought  and  learning  onward 
through  the  ages,  and  as  the  life,  mental  and 
spiritual,  is  more  than  meat,  they  have  not  been 
so  far  behind  the  grasses  in  real  serviceableness 
after  all. 


CHAPTER     IX 
NIGHT     FLOWERS 

WHEN  night  finds  us  in  quiet  homes,  with  quiet 
minds  and  bodies  pleasantly  tired,  there  may  come 
to  us  the  thought  of  those  to  whom  the  evening 
is  as  a  morning,  and  whose  wakeful  and  busy  time 
is  just  beginning. 

In  many  fields  of  industry  work  gets  fairly 
under  way  about  the  bedtime  of  the  public  at 
large.  The  newspaper  offices  are  all  alight  and 
astir.  On  the  railroads  thousands  of  men  are  as- 
suming those  exacting  duties  which,  for  them,  turn 
night  into  day.  The  night  nurses  in  hospitals,  the 
sentries  in  forts,  the  watch  at  sea,  have  all  hours 
of  vigilant  wakefulness  before  them. 

In  the  animal  world  the  darkness  which  lulls 
one'  creature  to  repose  rouses  another  into  in- 
tensest  life.  Beasts  of  prey,  which  have  drowsed 
through  the  sunlit  hours,  wake  in  the  twilight  to 

"seek    their    meat    from    God,"    and    migrant    birds 

199 


2oo    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

stretch  their  wings  for  a  flight  which  will  end  only 
with  the  dawn. 

In  the  insect  world  innumerable  creatures  fly  out 
of  countless  holes  and  hiding-places  as  dusk  falls, 
seeking  those  flowers  of  darkness  which  hold  con- 
tinuous receptions  for  them  through  the  dewy 
summer  nights. 

There  is  a  popular  but  an  erroneous  impression 
that  only  two  or  three  sorts  of  blossoms  unfold  at 
evening.  The  night-blooming  cereus  is  so  big  and 
splendid  that  it  occupies  an  undue  place  in  the 
public  mind  as  the  flower  of  darkness,  whose  noc- 
turnal habits  are  shared  only  by  the  moon-flower. 
But  if  we  bethink  us  that  moths  draw  most  of 
their  sustenance  from  flower-calices,  we  will  realize 
that  there  must  be  a  whole  category  of  night- 
blooming  flowers.  For  though  many  blossoms  do 
not  close  at  dusk,  but  keep  open  house  day  and 
night  during  their  whole  time  of  blooming,  the 
buds  of  most  species  expand  in  the  sunshine,  and 
the  chances  are  that  their  sweets  will  be  ex- 
tracted soon  afterward  by  some  diurnal  rover. 

How,  then,  does  Nature  feed  the  crepiscular 
moths,  which  flit  abroad  at  sundown,  and  the  noc- 
turnal moths,  which  fly  in  darkness  ?  We  realize 
their  numbers,  to  our  cost,  if  we  burn  a  lamp  near 


Night  Flowers  201 

an  open  window  on  a  sultry  night.  In  a  museum 
of  natural  history  we  may  see  them  gathered  ac- 
cording to  their  tribes,  a  mighty  host,  clad  all  in 
night's  sombre  livery.  It  would  be  a  formidable 
undertaking  to  count  the  species,  and  as  for  the 
individuals,  they  must  be  numberless  as  the  sands 
of  the  shore.  For  them  the  night-flowers  blow, 
and  as  the  guests  are  many,  the  banquet  is  abun- 
dant. 

In  our  gardens  and  in  the  fields  a  number  of 
blossoms  expand  in  the  twilight.  Some  of  these 
close  about  sunrise,  some  wilt  in  the  radiance  of 
noon,  and  some  remain  open  all  through  the  day, 
and  hence  are  never  thought  of  as  nocturnal  flow- 
ers. But  their  first  freshness  and  uttermost  sweet- 
ness are  given  to  the  night-moths,  and  though  we 
may  see  them  blooming  in  the  sunshine,  they  are 
really  blossoms  of  the  night. 

Among  garden-flowers  the  most  familiar  night- 
bloomer  is  the  honeysuckle.  Its  buds  open  late 
in  the  afternoon  or  in  the  evening  before  dusk 
falls.  On  a  very  cloudy  day  I  have  seen  them  ex- 
panding as  early  as  half-past  three,  and  in  the 
long  June  afterglow  it  may  be  eight  o'clock  be- 
fore the  last  flowers  unfold.  They  are  slender 
vases  filled  to  the  brim  with  fragrance,  which  is 


202    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

shed  upon  the  night  air,  a  mute  invitation  to  the 
vine's  best  friends,  the  "  hawk  or  li  sphinx  "  moths. 

Several  sorts  of  these  sphinxes  visit  the  flowers 
during  the  earlier  hours  of  the  night.  One,  who 
begins  his  supper  before  daylight  has  faded,  is 
rather  larger  than  a  bumble-bee.  His  body  and 
upper  wings  are  in  dull  shades  of  gray  and  brown, 
but  on  his  under  wings  are  patches  of  *  'sunset  "- 
pink,  which  show  that  his  habits  are  crepuscular 
rather  than  nocturnal.  For  the  true  night-moths, 
the  "butterflies  of  the  earth's  shadow,"  are  dun- 
colored,  gray,  or  white.  Nature,  which  never 
wastes,  has  withheld  from  them  the  colors  which 
would  be  invisible  to  their  mates,  and  has 
sent  them  abroad  as  sombrely  clad  as  so  many 
nuns  and  friars.  This  little  visitor,  with  the  bright 
colors  on  his  wings,  roves  abroad  in  the  evening 
and  morning  twilight  when  there  is  enough  light 
to  reveal  his  adornment  to  his  lady-love. 

Later  in  the  night,  when  he  has  supped,  the 
vine  will  be  visited  by  larger  sphinxes,  dusky  or 
sad-colored,  as  are  all  insects  which  fly  in  dark- 
ness. All  these  moths  have  large  proboscises, 
which  can  reach  down  to  the  bases  of  deep  and 
slender  blossom-tubes,  and  which  coil  up  like 
watchsprings  when  the  insects  are  at  rest. 


Night  Flowers 


203 


Thfey  sip  like  humming-birds,  poised  above  the 
flower  on  whirring  wings,  and  hence  are  some- 
times known  as  "  humming-bird  moths."  They 
are  called  "  hawk-moths,"  on  account  of  the  swift- 
ness of  their  flight,  and  "sphinxes,"  because  the 
caterpillars  from  which  they  develop  have  a  curi- 


Sphinx  ligustri.  Sphinx  convolvuli. 

FIG.  54. — Nocturnal  guests  of  the  honeysuckle. 
(From  Tiguier's  Insect  World.) 

ous  habit  of  remaining  motionless,  with  their  heads 
and  the  forepart  of  their  bodies  raised  in  an  at- 
titude a  little  like  that  of  the  crouching-sphinxes 
of  old  Egypt.  A  few  hawk-moths  fly  by  day, 
but  most  species  rove  abroad  during  the  morning 
and  evening  twilight,  when  they  may  be  seen  flit- 
ing  with  great  swiftness  from  flower  to  flower 
(Fig.  54). 


204    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

The  honeysuckles  blow  just  at  the  time  of  year 
when  these  moths  are  most  numerous,  and  they 
offer  a  rich  feast  to  their  chosen  guests,  for  the 
freshly-opened  flowers  are  filled  to  the  middle  of 
their  slender  tubes  with  nectar. 

The  pollen-grains  of  the  honeysuckles  are  rounded, 
somewhat  sticky,  and  are  covered  with  small,  sharp 
points  (Fig.  55).  They  adhere  to  the  hairy 


FIG.  55. — Pollen  of  the  honeysuckle.     (Magnified.) 

bodies  of  the  night-moths,  and  thus  are  carried  to 
the  pistils  of  other  flowers. 

On  warm,  calm  evenings  the  honeysuckles'  visi- 
tors are  so  numerous  that  by  morning  all  the 
flowers  have  had  their  pollen  entirely  removed. 

But  after  cold  and  windy  nights  the  anthers  still 
retain  much  of  their  golden  store. 

This  will  be  carried  away  in  daylight  hours  by 
butterflies  or  humming-birds. 

The  white  day  or  Japan  lily  (Funkia  japonicd) 
(Fig.  56)  opens  about  sundown,  giving  forth  an 
alluring  sweetness.  I  have  never  seen  a  winged 
insect  accept  this  seductive  invitation,  but  as  the 


FIG.  56. — Day  or  "  Japan"  lilies  (Funkia  Japonica). 
205 


Night  Flowers  207 

long  blossom-tubes  are  sometimes  followed  by 
shining,  green  seed-vessels,  it  is  evident  that  the 
day  lily  occasionally  receives  a  visitor,  who  comes 
under  cover  of  night.  A  flower-tube  so  long  as 
this  can  be  drained  only  by  an  insect  with  a  very 
long  proboscis.  Such  insects  are  large  and  con- 
spicuous, and  if  they  flew  by  day  would  be  speed- 
ily "  nabbed "  by  birds,  collectors,  or  small  boys. 
Like  Leander,  they  must  pay  their  addresses  by 
night  for  life's  sweet  sake. 

So  the  deepest-throated  flowers  are  almost  all 
nocturnal.  The  jasmine,  the  tuberose,  and  ste- 
phanotis,  which  keep  their  nectar  in  very  long  and 
slender  tubes,  blow  at  evening,  and  give  their 
fragrance  to  the  night.  The  Yucca  Filamentosa, 
familiarly  known  as  "  Adam's  needle  and  thread," 
is  another  familiar  garden  night-flower  (Fig.  57). 

By  day  its  greenish-white  flowers  are  bell- 
shaped  and  odorless;  and  if  the  twilight  be  cold 
or  rainy  its  coming  makes  little  difference  in 
their  aspect.  But  on  a  clear,  sultry  evening, 
soon  after  sunset,  the  yucca  shows  a  marked 
change.  Its  blossoms  open  widely,  spreading  in- 
to great  six-pointed  stars,  and  breathe  forth  a 
very  penetrating  and  characteristic  odor. 

As    morning    breaks    the    blossoms  lose    the    star- 


208    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

like  form,  and  sunshine  finds  them  scentless  bells 
once  more,  dangling  in  the  lassitude  consequent 
upon  a  night  of  alert,  and  probably  futile,  wake- 
fulness. 

For  this  yucca  is  brought  to  our  gardens  from 
the  South,  and  is  accustomed  to  have  its  pollen 
fetched  and  carried  by  subtropical  night-rovers. 
Few  native  nocturnal  moths  are  able  to  sip 
its  sweets  or  transfer  its  pollen;  and  if,  dur- 
ing its  brief  term  of  beauty,  a  spell  of  cold  rain 
discourages  insect-rovers,  the  whole  creamy  spire 
of  flowers  may  bloom  and  fade  without  setting  a 
single  seed. 

But  in  fine,  warm  summer  evenings  they  are 
sometimes  visited  by  the  small  moth  which  fertil- 
izes the  wild  yuccas  of  the  Georgia  coast. 

The  mode  of  procedure  of  this  little  wanderer 
is  peculiar.  She  is  a  mother  moth,  seeking  shelter 
and  maintenance  for  a  young  family,  and  she  has 
no  aim  except  the  welfare  of  her  future  offspring. 

But  in  attending  to  her  own  affairs,  she,  inci- 
dentally, takes  charge  of  the  yucca's  affairs  also. 
The  coming  family  are  to  be  housed  in  the  seed- 
vessel  of  the  plant,  and  nourished  on  its  young 
seeds. 

But    the   yucca's    pistil  and    stamens  are    so  situ- 


FIG.  57. — "  Adam's  needle  and  thread  "  ( Yucca  filamentosa). 
209 


Night  Flowers  2 1 1 

ated,  with  regard  to  each  other,  that  pollen  can 
scarcely  reach  the  stigma  without  the  aid  of  insect 
ministrations. 

And  the  mother-moth  seems  to  understand  that 
unless  the  pistil  is  touched  by  pollen  from  the 
anthers  there  will  be  neither  seed-vessel  nor  seed. 
She  first  bores  the  ovary  in  several  places,  and  in 
each  hole  she  deposits  an  egg.  Then  she  collects 
load  after  load  of  pollen  from  the  anthers,  gather- 
ing it  up  by  means  of  a  long,  coiling  organ,  which 
seems  to  have  been  given  her  for  this  special  pur- 
pose. She  thrusts  most  of  this  pollen  into  the 
holes  with  the  eggs,  so  that  it  makes  warm  and 
dry  beds  for  the  grubs  that  are  to  be.  And, 
guided  by  a  marvellous  instinct,  she  also  places 
some  of  it  on  the  stigma  of  the  flower.  So  as 
the  grubs  develop  in  the  ovary,  the  seeds  which 
serve  as  their  food  develop  also,  and  with  them 
so  many  other  seeds  that  the  perpetuation  of  the 
yucca  family  is  ensured. 

"When  the  grub  is  full  grown,"  says  Muller,  "it 
bores  a  hole  through  the  capsule,  lowers  itself  to 
the  ground  by  a  thread,  digs  its  way  a  few  inches 
into  the  soil  and  spins  a  cocoon,  in  which  it 
spends  autumn,  winter,  and  spring." 

In    its     native    haunts    it     passes    into    the    pupa 


212    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

stage  about  fourteen  days  before  the  Georgia 
yucca  (Yzicca  recurvifolid)  begins  to  bloom,  and 
emerges  from  its  temporary  tomb  as  the  flowers 
expand.  But  it  is  probable  that  our  average 
winters  are  too  severe  for  a  transplanted  southern 
family,  and  that  most  of  the  Pronuba  yuccasella 
larvae  in  our  gardens  freeze  with  the  freezing 
soil,  and  thus  perish  untimely.  Some  few,  how- 
ever, survive  the  winter  evidently  and  make  use 
of  the  yucca  blossoms  as  their  mother  did  before 
them,  for  in  most  seasons  we  will  find  a  few  cap- 
sules full-grown  and  symmetrically  formed,  but 
with  holes  in  them. 

And  so  wounded  and  marred,  the  flowers  have 
fulfilled  the  purpose  of  their  lives,  and  attained  a 
development  which  they  might  not  otherwise  have 
reached. 

Occasionally  one  finds  a  perfectly-developed  cap- 
sule which  is  not  pierced,  showing  that  the  yucca 
receives  visits,  few  and  far  between,  from  some 
nocturnal  guest  which  fertilizes  the  blossoms  with- 
out marring  them.  But  in  many  seasons  no  effi- 
cient callers  come  to  the  flowers  and  no  capsules 
form  at  all. 

Many  of  the  white  Japan  lilies  are  likewise  dis- 
appointed, so  large  a  proportion  of  them,  in  fact, 


Night  Flowers  213 

that  one  season,  when  my  garden  yielded  twenty 
large  heads  of  bloom,  each  bearing  many  flowers, 
only  eight  capsules  formed. 

But  the  night-flowers  which  blow  in  the  fields, 
even  when  they  are  of  foreign  descent,  have  near 
kin  among  the  aborigines  of  the  soil.  So  each 
has  its  insect  attendant,  faithful  to  the  family,  time 
out  of  mind,  and  their  sweetness  is  not  wasted, 
nor  does  Nature's  purpose  for  them  fail. 

The  most  familiar  nocturnal  wild-flower  east  of 
the  Alleghanies  is  the  evening  primrose  (CEnothera 
biennis]  (Fig.  58).  It  is  extremely  common  every- 
where in  the  Northern  Atlantic  states — along  road- 
sides, in  fence  corners,  and  around  the  edges  of 
thickets.  By  day  its  appearance  is  uninteresting.  A 
stalk  from  three  to  six  feet  tall  bears  a  profusion 
of  long,  narrow,  rather  coarse  leaves,  and  above 
them  a  spire  of  faded  flowers  and  buds.  In  the 
afternoon  the  primrose  has  nothing  to  show  but 
fading  flowers  and  buds,  and  one  is  reminded  of 
"jam  yesterday  and  jam  to-morrow — but  never 
jam  to-day,"  in  "Alice  in  Wonderland."  The 
faded  blossoms  bloomed  the  night  before  last,  the 
wilting  ones  were  beautiful  last  night,  the  large 
buds  above  them  will  expand  this  evening.  About 
sunset  or  a  little  sooner,  if  the  plant  is  in  the 


214    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

shade,  they  begin  to  swell.  The  green  calyx 
splits  in  four  places,  disclosing  four  lines  of  gold 
which  widen  under  our  eyes.  Then,  with  a  start 
and  a  jerk,  one  narrow  sepal  draws  backward,  and 
the  yellow  corella  is  revealed.  Little  thrills  go 
through  the  bud,  like  the  slight  movement  of  an 
awakening  child.  A  second  sepal  draws  backward, 
and  then  a  third,  and  with  an  impulse  of  fully- 
aroused  life  the  flower  bursts  its  last  bond  and 
opens  wide,  showing  its  heart  of  gold.  A  delicate 
perfume  is  shed  abroad  ;  and  by  this  as  well  as 
by  the  gleam  of  yellow  petals  the  moth  is  lured 
to  the  flower. 

There  is  a  garden  evening-primrose  which  opens 
in  a  most  impressive  manner,  with  a  sudden  flare  of 
golden  petals,  and  a  slight  pop,  like  that  made  by 
withdrawing  a  small  but  stubborn  cork.  But  the 
wild  evening-primroses  open  slowly,  with  little 
pauses  and  delays,  as  if  they  were  half  afraid  to 
venture  into  the  untried  life  before  them. 

Along  the  Ohio  valley  and  in  the  alluvial 
country  westward  (and  in  many  places  further 
east)  the  commonest  night-flower  is  the  Jamestown 
or  jimson-weed  (Datura  stramonium)  (Fig.  59).  The 
vagabond  habits  of  this  dweller  in  waste  ground, 
its  rank,  weedy  aspect,  and  the  disagreeable  smell 


FIG.  58. — A  wild  evening  primrose  ((Enothera  biennis). 
215 


Night  Flowers 


217 


of   its  leaves,   spoil   the  impression  which  might    be 
made  by  the  beauty  of  the   blossoms  were  they  not 


FlG.  59. — Jimson-weed  (Datura  stramonium). 

so  lowly  born.  Growing  with  the  jimson-weed  we 
may  find  its  first  cousin,  the  Datura  tatula,  a 
smaller  plant  bearing  flowers  strongly  tinged  with 


218    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

purple.  The  buds  of  both  species  expand  late  in 
the  afternoon — from  four  to  six  o'clock,  according 
to  the  weather.  Both  are  immigrants  from  warmer 
lands,  but  it  is  evident  that  they  have  made  friends 
among  the  native  night-flying  insects,  for  the 
thorny  seed-vessels  follow  duly  upon  the  fading  of 
the  flowers. 

The     night    visitor    of    the    jimson-weed    is    the 


FIG.  60. — Night  visitor  to  the  jimson-weed  (Sphinx  Carolina). 
(From  Harris'  Insects  Injurious  to  Vegetation.) 

Sphinx  Carolina  (Fig.  60),  a  large  moth  whose  cater- 
pillar has  a  great  and  evil  reputation  throughout 
the  South,  where  it  is  known  as  the  "tobacco- 
worm."  In  our  gardens  these  caterpillars  live 
on  the  tomato-vines.  They  are  large,  but  it 
is  difficult  to  see  them,  notwithstanding,  as  their 
bodies  are  of  exactly  the  same  tint  as  the  vine- 


FIG.  61.— Hedge  bind-vveed  (Convolvulus  sepium). 


Night  Flowers  221 

stems.  The  full-grown  moths  appear  in  June,  and 
on  any  warm,  clear  evening,  from  midsummer  till 
frost,  they  may  be  seen,  hovering  like  humming- 
birds above  the  blossoms  of  their  choice. 

1  'The  flowers  of  the  great  convolvulus  (Fig.  61) 
or  hedge  bind-weed  close,"  says  Muller,  "on  cloudy 
evenings " — but  on  moonlight  nights  they  are  all 
wide  awake,  and  watching  for  their  best  friend,  the 
Sphinx  convolvuli.  In  England,  where  this  great 
night-moth  is  rare,  the  hedge  bind-weed  seldom 
produces  seed,  though  it  may  be  visited  and  fer- 
tilized in  the  morning  hours  by  the  sunshine-lov- 
ing butterflies. 

But  in  our  warm  summer  twilights  Sphinx  con- 
volvuli is  not  uncommon,  and  one  may  catch  him, 
as  he  has  been  caught  aforetime,  by  a  naturalist 
who  "stood  by  a  moonlit  hedge,  overgrown  with 
convolvulus,  held  thumb  and  ringer  over  a  flower, 
and  closed  its  orifice  when  the  moth  had  entered." 

The  pretty  roadside  saponaria,  familiarly  known 
as  "bouncing  Bet,"  expands  about  sundown,  and 
in  the  twilight  its  sweets  are  sipped  by  sphinx- 
moths,  which,  doubtless,  help  to  transfer  its  pollen. 
It  remains  open  throughout  the  following  day  and 
entertains  butterflies;  but  the  strong  fragrance  of 
the  flowers  at  evening  shows  that  night-moths  are 


222    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

the  favorite  guests.  The  stamens  of  the  bouncing 
Bet  are  ten  in  number.  Soon  after  the  flower 
opens  five  of  them  thrust  their  heads  out  of  the 
tube,  and  their  anthers  ripen  and  split.  When 
they  have  shed  their  pollen,  the  other  five  emerge, 
mature,  and  open. 

All  this  time  the  young  pistil  lies  concealed  in 
the  flower-tube,  but,  after  the  second  quintette  of 
stamens  have  given  away  most  of  their  store,  it 
comes  out  of  its  seclusion,  and  the  two  long  stig- 
mas expand  themselves.  The  butterfly  guests  by 
day  and  the  moth  visitors  by  night  carry  pollen 
from  the  stamens  of  younger  flowers  to  the  pistils 
of  older  ones. 

Many  members  of  the  pink  family,  to  which 
"bouncing  Bet"  belongs,  have  formed  the  habit  of 
ripening  two  successive  quintettes  of  stamens,  and, 
last  of  all,  the  pistil.  This  arrangement  makes 
sure  that  the  flower  will  set  seed  only  by  aid  of 
pollen  brought  from  another,  and  that  its  seeds  (if 
they  are  formed)  will  be  endowed  with  great  vital- 
ity. But  the  family  is  placed  entirely  at  the  mercy 
of  flying  insects,  for  without  their  ministrations 
no  seed  can  be  set  at  all.  So  the  whole  future  of 
such  flower  families  depends  upon  the  success  with 
which  its  members  entice  their  winged  friends. 


FIG.  62. — Bouncing  Bet  (Saponaria  officinalis). 
223 


Night  Flowers  225 

Some  of  the  pink  family  have  adapted  themselves 
so  nearly  to  the  requirements  of  their  chosen  guests 
that  they  have  become  unfitted  for  miscellaneous 
hospitality.  Their  blossom-tubes  are  too  long  and 
too  narrow  to  be  drained  by  most  insects,  and 
hence  many  diurnal  flowers  of  the  pink  family  are 
wholly  dependent  on  butterflies,  as  some  nocturnal 
species  are  upon  night-moths. 

The  differences  between  day-  and  night-blossoms 
are  beautifully  shown  by  two  nearly-related  Eng- 
lish wild-flowers  which  have  recently  come  into  our 
fields.  They  are  known  to  English  village  chil- 
dren as  red  and  white  campion,  and  to  botanists 
as  "corn-cockle"  and  "evening-lychnis."  The  red 
campion  (Lychnis  githago)  or  corn-cockle  is  already 
resolving  itself  into  a  nuisance  in  the  grain-fields 
of  the  Central  and  Western  States.  It  is  rosy- 
purple,  blooms  by  day,  and  is  fertilized  by  butter- 
flies. As  it  is  able  to  attract  those  insect  friends 
by  its  bright  color  alone,  it  is  scentless.  A  few 
clearly-drawn,  dark  lines,  running  from  the  edge 
of  the  blossom  to  its  centre,  are  a  floral  signal- 
code,  telling  the  butterflies  where  the  nectar  which 
they  seek  is  stored  for  them,  at  the  bottom  of 
a  tube  so  slender  and  deep  that  smaller  insects 
cannot  reach  down  to  it.  At  evening,  when 


226    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 


the    corn-cockle's    butterfly    friends    go    to    rest,    it 

closes. 

The  evening-lychnis,  which  is  still  somewhat  rare 

in    this    country,    resembles    the    corn-cockle    almost 

exactly  in  size, 
form,  and  foliage, 
but  is  adapted  in 
several  interesting 
ways  to  its  chosen 
friends,  the  night- 
moths.  It  opens 
at  evening,  after 
remaining  partially 
closed  all  day,  and 
thus  it  saves  its 
nectar  for  its  noc- 
turnal guests.  That 
they  may  more  read- 
ily see  it  in  the 
dark  fields  it  glim- 
mers white,  and  as 
an  additional  help 


al  Report  of  U.  S.  Department 
Agriculture  for  1886.) 


.  .  a 

it  the  flower  is 
fragrant.  Lastly,  the  evening-lychnis  has  no  lines 
to  indicate  the  whereabouts  of  its  nectar,  for  these 


Night  Flowers  227 

would  be  undistinguishable  in  the  dark,   and  there- 
fore useless. 

Whoever  tries  to  gather  red  currants  or  straw- 
berries by  twilight  will  find  that  the  red  of  the 
fruit,  so  noticeable  by  day,  now  blends  undis- 
tinguishably  with  the  green  of  the  leaves.  Long 
before  real  darkness  comes,  the  most  conspicuous 
of  daytime  colors  vanishes  into  the  shadows.  But 
a  very  small  object,  if  it  be  white,  can  be  seen  in 
the  darkest  hours  of  a  moonless  night.  This  the 
night-flowers  seem  to  have  learned,  for  they  are 
all  white  or  pale-yellow. 

Their  distinguishing  charm  is  their  sweetness. 
Honeysuckle,  tuberose,  day-lily,  stephanotis,  night- 
blooming  cereus — what  scents  for  a  Sybarite  are 
here!  The  evening  primroses  have  a  delicious 
fragrance,  and  the  diurnal  primroses  have  none. 
There  are  two  nocturnal  species  of  silene,  both 
sweet-scented,  while  the  nine  or  ten  diurnal  spe- 
cies are  all  odorless.  Even  the  despised  jimson- 
weed  blossom  lures  the  moths  by  a  delicate  per- 
fume which  is  lost  directly  we  gather  it,  in  the 
rank  odor  of  the  broken  stem. 

The  closing  time  of  these  night-flowers,  like  the 
time  of  their  expansion,  is  variable.  It  may  de- 
pend partly  upon  the  vigor  of  the  plant,  its  age, 


228    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

and  its  location.  A  flower  which  has  been  visited 
and  fertilized  by  moths  will  probably  wilt  more 
quickly  than  one  which  has  been  neglected,  and 

NOOM 


FIG.  64A.--A  flower-clock—morning.     (Tentatively  submitted.) 

Most  of  the  morning  hours  and  flowers  are  cited  from  a  "clock  "  compiled  for 
France  by  Lamarck.  They  may  need  some  correction  for  the  more  southern 
latitudes  of  the  United  States. 

the  life  of  the  blossom  after  daylight  will  be  af- 
fected by  the  temperature  and  humidity  of  the 
morning.  Honeysuckles  generally  keep  their  fresh 
looks  all  day,  and  with  them  a  fragrance,  fainter 


Night  Flowers 


229 


than  that  which  lured  the  sphinx-moth,  but  deli- 
cious still.  But  they  do  not  survive  a  torrid  and 
glaring  noon.  Evening-primroses,  if  the  morning 


MIDNIGHT 


FIG.  643. — A  flower-clock — afternoon  and  evening. 
(Tentatively  submitted.) 

The  post-meridial  half  of  the  clock  is  compiled  from  the  author's  observations  in 
garden  and  field  in  the  states  of  Ohio  and  New  York. 

is  cloudy,  or  if  they  grow  in  the  shade,  are  pretty 
until  midday,  but  if  ardent  sunshine  reaches  them 
they  wilt  much  earlier,  while  the  day-lilies  re- 
main crisp  and  fragrant  till  twilight  falls  again. 


Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

All  these  flowers,  if  the  moths  have  failed  them, 
will  perhaps  be  visited  and  fertilized  by  the  sun- 
shine-loving butterflies. 

Linnaeus  had  the  pretty  idea  of  a  time-keeping 
garden,  and  he  drew  up  for  the  latitude  of  Up- 
sala,  in  Sweden,  a  list  of  plants,  arranged  accord- 
ing to  the  time  at  which  their  buds  expand. 
This  list  is  the  famous  "  floral  clock,"  "  whose 
wheels,"  says  Jean  Paul  Richter,  "are  the  sun 
and  earth  and  whose  index  figures  are  flowers." 

De  Candolle,  the  French  botanist,  arranged  an- 
other floral  clock  for  the  vicinity  of  Paris. 

The  suggestion  has  charmed  the  popular  fancy 
and  excited  the  fertile  inventiveness  of  the  penny- 
a-liners.  So  every  now  and  then  a  newspaper  ar- 
ticle appears,  stating  exact  times  for  the  opening 
and  closing  of  familiar  flowers,  and  it  goes  the 
rounds,  giving  unsuspecting  people  to  understand 
that  flowers  are  as  punctual  as  express-trains. 
But  blossoms  are  not  accurate  timekeepers.  The 
honeysuckle,  as  we  have  seen,  takes  to  itself  a 
margin  of  four  hours,  and  Linnaeus's  floral  clock 
allows  for  variations  of  an  hour  or  two  in  almost 
every  plant.  No  clock  of  bloom  would  serve  as  a 
substitute  for  the  mechanical  clock  of  commerce, 
that  soulless  autocrat  which  tyrannizes  over  our 


Might  Flowers  231 

lives  and  regulates  their  every  detail  nowadays. 
The  timekeeping  garden,  alack-a-day,  is  for  the 
dwellers  in  "that  sweet  isle  of  rest  which  is 
called  Avalon,"  or  for  the  lotos-eaters  who  have 
no  trains  to  "make,"  no  board  meetings  to  at- 
tend, and  no  engagements  to  keep,  but  who  "pass 
their  days  in  dreamful  ease,  "  and  "no  joy  know 
but  calm." 


CHAPTER     X 
CLIMBING     PLANTS 

THE  vine  has  served  rhetoricians  ever  since  the 
Dark  Ages  as  a  type  of  clinging  helplessness  aad 
utter  dependence.  It  has  symbolized  the  condi- 
tion of  woman  under  the  old  regime,  before  she 
entered  the  learned  professions  and  the  business 
world,  donned  short  skirts,  mounted  the  bicycle,  and 
wrote  herself  down  Woman.  Therefore,  we  learn, 
with  some  surprise,  that  the  vine,  like  many  a 
woman  in  unreconstructed  societies,  is  only  appar- 
ently relieved  of  the  burdens  of  existence,  and 
that  it  works  as  hard  for  its  living  as  the  "sturdy 
oak,"  to  which  it  clings. 

The  charitable  soul  is  now  and  then  defrauded 
by  a  ne'er-do-well,  who  puts  into  his  schemes 
for  the  avoidance  of  work  an  amount  of  astuteness, 
adroitness,  and  energy  which  would  win  success  in 
some  legitimate  field  of  labor. 

Vines,  when    one  studies  their    habits,    are  some- 

232 


Climbing  Plants  233 

what  suggestive  of  such  characters,  for  they  ex- 
pend much  vital  energy  in  searching  for  something 
to  support  them,  and  in  holding  fast  to  the  sup- 
port when  it  is  found.  The  "movements  and 
habits  of  climbing  plants "  have  been  carefully 
studied  by  Darwin,  whose  book  on  the  subject  is 
the  source  of  most  of  the  facts  here  and  now  set 
forth.  He  divides  climbing  plants  into  four  classes. 
Those  of  the  first  class  twine  spirally  around  a 
support,  and  have  no  other  spontaneous  move- 
ments. To  this  category  beans  and  hops  belong. 

Vines  of  the  second  class  ascend  by  means  of 
special  organs.  Sometimes,  as  is  the  case  with 
the  clematis,  the  leaf-stalks  do  double  duty,  and 
not  only  uphold  the  leaves,  but  also  embrace  any 
slender  thing  within  reach.  And  sometimes  the 
plant  bears  tendrils,  which  reach  out  like  the  feelers 
of  an  octopus,  seeking  what  they  may  clasp  and 
hold.  By  this  method  sweet-peas  get  on  in  the 
world.  But  no  sharp  line  of  distinction  can  be 
drawn  between  "leaf-climbers"  and  "tendril-bear- 
ers." They  are  closely  connected,  and  are  classi- 
fied together. 

Vines  of  the  third  class  scramble  upward  by 
means  of  hooks,  and  this  is  the  way  some  roses 
clamber.  Many  of  these  hook-climbers  are  natives 


234    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

of  tropical  forests,  and  they  are  most  successful 
where  masses  of  tangled  vegetation  uphold  and 
"  boost"  them. 

In   the    fourth    class    Darwin     places   the     "root- 


FiG.  65. — English  ivy  (Hedera  Helix). 
Climbing  by  means  of  aerial  rootlets.    (From  the  Vegetable  World.) 

climbers."  These  produce  roots  both  in  earth  and 
air.  The  aerial  roots,  or  "rootlets,"  are  short, 
woody  threads,  which  half  cover  the  main  stem 
and  branches,  and  cling  tightly  to  bare  walls,  naked 


Climbing  Plants  235 

rocks,  or  the  trunks  of  large  trees.  The  English- 
ivy,  the  poison-ivy,  and  the  climbing-fig  all 
clamber  by  this  expedient,  and  their  grip  upon 
their  supports  is  amazingly  tenacious. 

Darwin  observed  that  the  rootlets  of  the  climb- 
ing-fig, when  they  were  a  few  days  old,  began  to 
emit  minute  drops  of  a  clear,  viscid  fluid.  This 
fig  is  a  first  cousin  to  the  plant  which  produces 
the  india-rubber  of  commerce,  and,  like  all 
members  of  the  family,  it  abounds  in  caoutchouc. 
So  the  liquid  which  glues  its  rootlets  to  the  wall 
is  fluid  india-rubber,  and  with  time  and  exposure 
to  the  air  this  substance  becomes  converted  into  a 
brittle,  resinous  matter,  very  similar  to  shellac. 
"  Whether  other  plants  which  climb  by  their  root- 
lets emit  any  cement,"  says  Darwin,  "  I  do  not 
know;  but  the  rootlets  of  the  ivy,  placed  against 
glass,  barely  adhered  to  it,  yet  secreted  a  little 
yellowish  matter." 

But  hook-  and  root-climbers,  however  lovely  and 
pleasant  to  the  landscape-gardener,  have  little  in- 
terest for  the  student  of  plant  habits.  His  at- 
tention is  given  rather  to  the  twiners  and  tendril- 
bearers,  whose  movements  seem  instinct  with  life, 
akin  to  that  of  the  animal  world ;  for  every  tender 
tip  of  every  growing  twiner  sweeps  around  and 


236    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

around  continuously.  As  the  growth  of  the  plant 
causes  the  ends  of  its  main  stem  and  branches  to 
ascend,  the  motion  of  each  vine  is  not  a  series  of 
circles,  but  one  close,  continuous  spiral.  This  re- 
volving movement  is  quicker  by  day  than  it  is  by 
night.  It  is  accelerated  by  the  warmth  of  sun- 
shiny summer  noons,  and  retarded  by  overcast  or 
chilly  weather.  It  is  most  rapid,  generally  speak- 
ing, in  June  heats,  when  all  plant-life  reaches  its 
uttermost  fulness,  and  it  slows  down  gradually  with 
the  waning  of  the  year.  But  all  summer  long,  in 
glad  or  in  gloomy  weather,  this  strange  movement 
goes  on  in  growing  tips  of  twining  and  tendril- 
bearing  vines. 

Decrease  in  temperature  always  has  the  effect  of 
retarding  the  revolution  of  a  vine-tip.  When  twin- 
ing plants  grow  in  a  window  the  sprays  travel  faster 
when  in  the  sunlight,  and  their  speed  slackens  as 
they  twine  into  the  shadow.  Thus,  a  morning- 
glory,  living  in  a  sunny  window,  has  been  found  to 
make  a  complete  revolution  in  five  hours  and  thirty 
minutes,  but  the  half  of  its  orbit  which  lay  in  the 
light  was  traversed  in  one  hour,  and  all  the  rest 
of  the  time  was  spent  in  getting  around  the  semi- 
circle which  lay  in  shadow. 

When   a  hop  begins    to  grow,    the   two    or   three 


Climbing  Plants  237 

first-formed  joints,  or  "  internodes,"  of  the  stem  are 
straight,  and  stand  erect  and  still.  "But  the  next 
formed,"  says  Darwin,  "whilst  very  young,  may 
be  seen  to  bend  to  one  side,  and  to  travel  slowly 
around  toward  all  points  of  the  compass,  moving 
like  the  hands  of  a  watch,  with  the  sun."  The 
movement  very  soon  acquires  its  full  ordinary  ve- 
locity, and  it  continues  as  long  as  the  plant  con- 
tinues to  grow;  but  each  separate  internode,  as 
it  becomes  old,  ceases  to  move.  The  internodes 
travel  slowly  when  they  are  very  young,  and  ac- 
celerate their  speed  as  they  approach  maturity. 

So  the  tender  tip  and  the  lower  and  older  part 
of  the  spray  are  moving  in  the  same  direction, 
but  at  varying  rates ;  and  this  difference  some- 
times gives  a  serpentine  twist  to  the  shoots  of 
vigorous  twiners.  The  ends  of  many  vine-sprays 
are  bent  over  so  as  to  form  hooks,  which  are  of 
great  assistance  to  the  plants  in  their  efforts  to  rise 
in  the  world.  For  not  only  does  the  terminal 
hook  lay  hold  of  any  support  within  reach,  but  it 
causes  the  tip  of  the  shoot  to  embrace  this  sup- 
port much  more  closely  than  it  could  otherwise  do, 
and  thus  may  prevent  the  stem  from  being  blown 
aside  in  windy  weather.  It  is  very  noticeable  in  the 
young  sprays  of  the  Virginia  creeper  (see  Fig.  67). 


2)8    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

"The  first  purpose  of  the  spontaneous  revolv- 
ing movement,"  says  Darwin,  "is  to  enable  the 
shoot  to  find  its  support.  This  is  admirably  ef- 


Bind-weed  (Con-volvulus). 
Twining  "  against  the  sun." 


Hop-vine  (Humulus  Lupulus). 
Twining  "  with  the  sun.1' 


FIG.  66. — Bind-weed  and  hop-vine. 
(From  the  Vegetable  World.) 

fected  by  the  revolutions  carried  on  night  and 
day,  a  wider  and  wider  circle  being  swept  as  the 
shoot  increases  in  length.  This  movement  like- 


Climbing  Plants  239 

wise  explains  how  it  is  that  plants  twine."  The 
hop  and  the  honeysuckle  always  move  in  the 
same  direction  as  the  hands  of  a  watch  (Fig.  66). 
They  follow  the  sun.  The  bean,  jasmine,  wis- 
taria, and  convolvulus  turn  always  in  the  contrary 
direction  to  the  hands  of  a  watch,  or  against 
the  sun.  A  few  vines — notably  the  bittersweet — 
seem  indifferent  which  way  they  twine,  and  one 
species  studied  by  Darwin,  the  Scypanthus  elegans^ 
can  revolve  first  one  way  and  then  the  other; 
can,  in  fact,  "  reverse"  like  an  expert  waltzer. 

But  the  great  majority  of  those  which  have 
been  studied  twine  always  the  same  way,  and  as 
a  rule  plants  near  of  kin  wind  about  their  sup- 
ports in  the  same  direction.  The  speed  of  the  re- 
volving movement  varys  greatly.  The  convolvulus 
and  the  bean  sweep  completely  around  the  circle 
in  less  than  two  hours.  On  the  other  hand, 
some  plants  take  twenty-four  hours  for  a  single 
revolution,  and  one  sluggard  was  found  which 
seemed  unable  to  get  around  in  less  than  forty- 
eight  hours.  The  rate  of  speed  seems  to  have 
little  to  do  with  the  thickness  of  the  vine,  for 
the  woody  shoots  of  the  wistaria  are  found  to 
traverse  the  circle  faster  than  do  the  slender 
herbaceous  tips  of  the  morning-glories. 


240    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

In  all  the  leaf-climbers  and  tendril-bearers  whose 
habits  have  been  investigated,  the  young  internodes 
revolve,  but  there  movements  are  less  regular  than 
those  of  the  twiners. 

The  tender  shoots  of  that  familiar  leaf-climber, 
the  clematis,  while  growing  vigorously  in  spring, 
make  small  oval  revolutions,  moving  always  in  the 
same  direction  as  the  hands  of  a  watch.  Later 
in  the  season  the  vine-tips  travel  more  fitfully 
and  slowly  through  a  very  small  circle,  and  by 
midsummer  their  movements  have  almost  ceased. 

But  the  leaf-stalks  have  acquired  a  high  degree 
of  sensitiveness,  as  if  to  make  up  for  the  failing 
powers  of  the  shoots. 

While  the  leaf  is  yet  so  young  that  its  blade 
— or  flat,  green  surface — has  attained  but  one-sixth 
of  its  full  size,  its  stalk  is  so  well  developed  that 
the  whole  affair  has  somewhat  the  disproportioned 
and  lanky  appearance  of  a  few-days'-old  colt.  At 
this  stage  of  growth  the  sensitiveness  of  the  leaf- 
stalk is  at  its  highest,  and  the  tender  blade  is 
bent  downward,  so  that  the  whole  leaf  has  a 
hook-like  form  (Fig.  67). 

When  the  growth  of  the  plant  or  an  impulse 
from  the  wind  brings  the  hook  into  such  a  posi- 
tion that  it  catches  on  a  twig  the  sensitive  stalk 


Climbing  Plants  241 

feels    the    pressure    and    begins    to    curve.       Darwin 
experimented    upon  one  species  of    clematis  with    a 


FIG.  67. — Scaling-hooks  of  the  Virginia  creeper  (Ampelopsis  quin- 
quefolia)  and  of  the  wild  clematis  (Clematis  Virginiana). 

stick   placed   so    as    to    press    lightly   against   one   of 
its  young  leaf-stalks.      He   found   that   the  leaf-stalk 


242    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

curled  completely  around  the  stick  in  the  course  of 
twelve  hours,  and  though,  after  twenty-four  hours, 
the  stick  was  removed,  the  young  stalk  never  sub- 
sequently straightened  itself. 

After  the  clasping  leaf-stalk  has  made  sure  of 
its  hold,  it  is  subjected  to  some  remarkable  alter- 
ations. It  literally  "  undergoes  a  change  of  heart," 
so  that,  though  the  stalk  in  its  days  of  youth 
and  freedom  was  flexible,  and  could  be  snapped 
easily,  the  clasping  coil  is  wonderfully  tough. 

The  purpose  of  this  change  evidently  is  to  fit  the 
leaf-stem  to  give  the  branch  firm  and  durable  support. 

The  ways  of  the  tendril-bearing  vines  may  be 
readily  studied  by  observation  of  two  among  them 
which  are  familiar  to  all  mankind — the  grapevine 
and  its  graceful  cousin,  the  Virginia  creeper.  Na- 
ture ages  ago  set  an  example  of  thrift  akin  to  that 
which  beats  its  swords  into  ploughshares  when 
cruel  war  is  done.  She  is  wont  to  adopt  the  same 
organ  in  various  ways,  so  that  it  can  fulfil  various 
tasks  in  various  conditions.  Thus  vine  tendrils  are 
leaf-stalks,  or  flower-stalks,  as  the  case  may  be,  al- 
tered over  into  fitness  for  their  new  work  of  clasp- 
ing and  clinging.  Those  of  the  great  majority  of 
vines  are  transformed  leaf-stalks,  and  now  and  then 
betray  their  true  nature  by  bearing  at  their  ex- 


Climbing  Plants  243 

tremities  partly-grown  or  imperfectly  formed  leaves. 
Those  of  the  grape  and  the  Virginia  creeper  are 
altered  flower-stalks,  and  occasionally  reveal  their 
origin  by  developing  into  what  are  known  as 
"flower-tendrils."  These,  like  Bottom  the  weaver, 
undertake  all  roles,  bearing  a  bunch  of  flowers 
midway,  and  having  coiling,  sensitive  tips.  And 
among  those  borne  by  the  grape  the  vine-dresser 
finds  every  gradation,  from  the  tendril  with  a  soli- 
tary blossom  half-way  along  its  length  to  the  bunch 
of  flowers  or  grapes  ending  in  a  tendril  coil.  But 
whether  they  are  leaf-stems  or  flower-stems  by  na- 
ture the  conduct  of  all  tendrils  is  much  the  same. 
"Both  kinds  spontaneously  revolve,"  says  Darwin, 
"and  at  about  the  same  rate.  Both,  when  touched, 
bend  quickly  toward  the  touched  side.  And  both 
kinds  soon  after  grasping  a  support  contract  spirally, 
and  then  increase  greatly  in  thickness  and  strength." 
A  vigorous  grape-tendril  is  often  several  inches 
in  length,  and  forks  once  or  twice.  Its  branches 
move  independently  of  one  another,  and  in  bright 
July  days  they  traverse  their  circle  in  from  two  to 
three  hours.  After  a  tendril  has  revolved  for  a 
time  it  bends  toward  the  dark,  so  that  if  a  grape- 
vine be  planted  against  a  wall  the  tendrils  reach 
toward  it,  and  in  a  vineyard  they  generally  point 


244    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

toward  the  north.  "The  tendrils  of  the  Virginia 
creeper  exhibit,"  says  Darwin,  "  no  marked  or 
regular  revolving  movement,  though  they  show  a 
decided  tendency  to  turn  from  the  light  toward 
the  dark."  But  the  vital  force  which  they  save 
by  thus  living  in  comparative  quiet  and  ease  seems 
expended  in  movements,  few  and  slight,  yet 
strangely  like  those  of  a  reasoning  creature.  These 
tendrils  have  generally  several  branches,  each  in- 
stinct with  vitality.  When  they  meet  with  a  flat 
surface  they  all  turn  toward  it,  spread  themselves 
as  far  apart  as  possible,  and  bring  their  hooked 
tips  into  close  contact  with  it.  "In  effecting 
this,"  says  Darwin,  "the  several  branches  after 
touching  the  surface  often  rise  up,  place  themselves 
in  a  new  position,  and  again  come  down  into  con- 
tact with  it.  In  the  course  of  about  two  days 
after  a  tendril  has  arranged  its  branches  so  as  to 
press  upon  any  surface,  its  curved  tips  swell,  be- 
come bright-red,  and  form  on  their  under  sides  little 
disks,  or  cushions,  with  which  they  adhere  firmly." 
As  these  disks  soon  fasten  themselves  to  smooth 
surfaces,  naturalists  believe  that  the  vine  secretes  a 
little  resinous  vegetable  cement,  by  means  of  which 
the  tendril  tip  sticks  fast  to  the  spot  which  it  has 
selected.  After  it  has  made  sure  of  its  hold,  the 


Climbing  Plants  245 

tendril  contracts  spirally,  and  by  so  doing  it  draws 
up  the  branch  upon  which  it  grows.  Coiled  thus, 
it  is  as  elastic  as  a  steel  spring,  and  when  the  main 
stalk  of  the  tendril  is  pulled  the  strain  is  distrib- 
uted equally  among  all  the  attached  disks.  With- 
ered branches  of  the  Virginia  creeper  continue  to 
cling  to  their  supporting  wall  years  after  their 
death,  despite  the  tugging  winds  of  many  winters 
and  the  softening  influences  of  the  rains  of  many 
springs.  Darwin  experimented  upon  a  single  lateral 
branchlet  of  a  tendril  supposed  to  be  at  least  ten 
years  old,  and  found  that  it  supported  a  weight 
of  two  pounds.  "The  whole  tendril  had  five  disk- 
bearing  branches,  of  equal  thickness,  and  appar- 
ently of  equal  strength,  so  that,  after  having  been 
exposed  during  ten  years  to  the  weather,  it  would 
probably  have  resisted  a  strain  of  ten  pounds." 

But  a  tendril  which  has  found  no  support  un- 
dergoes no  further  development.  It  was  "adapted" 
to  catch  and  cling,  and  as  it  has  failed  to  fulfil 
its  office  there  is  no  further  use  for  it  in  the  vine's 
economy.  For,  whatever  society  may  do,  Nature 
tolerates  no  shirks.  The  useless  tendril,  in  the 
course  of  a  week  or  two,  shrivels  into  a  slender 
thread,  drops  off,  and  drifts  away  like  summer 
leaves  in  October. 


CHAPTER     XI 
THE   SPORING  OF  THE   FERN 

"We  have  the  receipt  of  fern-seed 
We  walk  invisible." 

— King  Henry  the  Fourth. 

WHEN  Falstaff,  of  delightsome — though  not  of 
blessed — memory,  had  perpetrated  a  number  of 
lawless  deeds,  without  either  fear  or  reproach,  he 
boasted  that  he  and  his  cronies  "had  the  receipt 
of  fern-seed." 

The  fine  dust  which  borders  the  matured  fronds 
of  the  common  bracken  was  supposed  to  confer 
magic  powers  upon  whomsoever  should  gather  it 
with  proper  ceremonies,  at  the  stroke  of  twelve,  on 
midsummer's  night.  Chief  of  these,  and  most 
useful  to  gentlemen  like  Falstaff,  with  great  appe- 
tites and  slender  purses,  was  the  power  of  becom- 
ing invisible  at  will. 

The     experience     of     four     more     centuries     has 

taught   us    that    uncriticised    appropriation    of    other 

246 


The  Sporing  of  the  Fern  247 

men's  goods  comes  never  by  aid  of  fern-seed,  and 
only  sometimes  by  bribing  or  hoodwinking  the 
powers  that  be. 

And  modern  science  tells  us  that  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  fern-seed,  for  the  tiny  globular  or 
oval  bodies  from  which  flowerless  plants  are  per- 
petuated are  not  seeds,  but  spores. 

The  seed,  as  we  have  seen,  consists  generally  of 
two  coats,  enclosing  a  tiny  plant  and  a  store  of 
food  for  its  sustenance  during  the  first  few  days 
of  its  life  above  ground. 

But  the  spore  is  much  simpler  in  structure.  Its 
morphological  equivalent  in  the  flowering-plant  is 
not  the  ovary,  nor  even  the  ovule  or  young  seed 
within  the  ovary,  but  it  is  a  tiny  vesicle  or  cell 
which  formed  inside  the  ovule  when  the  flower  first 
unfolded. 

In  the  flowering-plant  the  jelly-like  substance  of 
this  cell  mingles  with  some  of  the  jelly  in  the 
pollen-grain,  and  after  this  union  is  complete  the  cell 
begins  to  grow  and  shape  itself  into  a  tiny  plant. 
This  union  of  the  contents  of  the  pollen-grain  with 
the  vesicle  in  the  ovule  has  been  understood,  though 
less  fully  than  we  understand  it  to-day,  for  two 
centuries  or  more.  Hence,  all  the  plants  which 
bear  flowers  with  stamens  and  pistils,  and  so  have 


248    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

ovules  and  pollen,  are  called  "phanerogams,"  the 
term  being  derived  from  two  Greek  words  which 
mean  a  visible  or  apparent  marriage. 

It  was  long  suspected  that  among  flowerless 
plants  also  the  new  individual  was  born  as  the  re- 
sult of  the  union  of  two  parent-cells,  but  with  the 
imperfect  microscopes  of  former  times  this  union 
could  not  be  seen  in  detail,  and  the  facts  concern- 
ing it  could  never  be  accurately  learned. 

So  all  the  series  of  the  flowerless  plants,  among 
which  are  numbered  lichens,  seaweeds,  mosses, 
liverworts,  horsetails,  and  ferns,  were  named  "cryp- 
togams," from  two  Greek  terms,  which  mean  a 
hidden  marriage. 

But  little  is  hidden  by  mere  minuteness  from 
the  modern  compound-microscope,  diid  though 
some  of  the  smallest  cryptogams — tha  microbes 
and  bacteria — have  "ways  that  are  dark'5  still,  the 
life-history  of  the  mosses,  liverworts,  horsetails, 
and  ferns  is  now  accurately  known. 

The  differences  between  these  two  great  series 
of  plants — the  flowering  and  the  flowerless — are 
sharply  defined  at  the  very  beginning  of  their 
histories.  In  the  ripe  seed  the  little  plant  is  al- 
ready formed. 

It    lies    snugly    folded    into    the    smallest   possible 


The  Sporing  of  the  Fern  249 

compass,  and  is  very  pale  and  tiny,  but  even  a 
pocket-lens  will  show  that  it  has  a  leaf,  or  two,  as 
the  case  may  be,  a  little  stem,  and  at  the  end  of 
this  a  knob,  whence  the  first  roots  will  spring. 

And  this  little  plant,  in  due  time,  will  grow  into 
the  exact  likeness  of  the  parent-plant  from  which 
it  sprang. 

Judged  by  their  exteriors,  the  little  spores  which 
dust  the  edges  or  dot  the  backs  of  fern-leaves  are 
more  elaborate  than  seeds,  for  the  fern-spore  has 
always  two  coats,  and  sometimes  three,  and  the 
outermost  coat  is  often  as  daintily  wrought  as  if 
a  fairy  carver  had  expended  his  best  skill  upon  it. 
But  inside  careful  investigation  with  the  most  pow- 
erful of  microscopes  finds  only  a  minute  drop  of 
jelly,  containing  a  little  starch,  some  oil,  and  many 
tiny  floating  grains  of  chlorophyll.  No  germ  is 
contained  within  the  spore  of  any  cryptogam. 

But  the  jelly,  or  protoplasm,  in  the  spore  is  in- 
stinct with  creative  life.  When  growth  begins,  the 
outer  coat  of  the  spore  breaks  irregularly,  and  the 
inner  coat,  with  part  of  its  contents,,  protrudes 
through  the  fissure,  forming  a  knob,  which  is  soon 
cut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  spore  by  a  transverse 
wall.  This  outgrowth  contains  little  or  no  chlor- 
ophyll, and  it  lengthens  rapidly,  plunges  downward 


250    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

into  the  soil,  and  serves  all  the  purposes  of  the 
first  rootlet  in  the  sprouting  seed-plant. 

Meantime  the  larger  and  greener  portion  of  the 
spore  stretches  out  into  a  tube,  and  a  little  later 
partitions  grow  across  the  interior  of  this  tube,  cut- 
ting it  up  into  a  chain  of  cells.  Later  still  the 
cell  at  the  outermost  end  divides  into  two  by  a 
lengthwise  partition.  Then  all  the  cells  begin  to 
divide  lengthwise  and  crosswise  by  the  growth  of 
delicate  walls  within  them,  till  there  is  formed  a 
sheet  or  plate  of  tissue,  with  the  general  outline  of 
a  flattened  heart.  Toward  the  centre  of  this 
heart,  on  the  side  which  lies  undermost,  rows  of  new 
cells  are  now  produced  by  the  growing  and  splitting 
of  old  ones,  till  a  cushion  of  tissue  is  formed. 

And  the  under  surface  of  the  little  heart  also 
gives  rise  to  a  number  of  long,  slender  tubes,  as 
fine  as  hairs,  which  are  called  "root-hairs,"  because 
their  office  is  the  same  as  that  of  the  roots  of 
higher  plants  (Fig.  68). 

They  anchor  the  little  heart  to  the  spot  where  it 
grew,  and  they  help  to  sustain  its  life  by  absorb- 
ing moisture  from  the  soil. 

The  mass  of  cellular  tissue  resulting  from  the 
development  of  the  spore  is  called  a  prothallium, 
or  prothallus. 


The  Sporing  of  the  Fern 


251 


The  adders'-tongues,  next  of  kin  to  the  ferns 
and  the  horsetails,  or  scouring-rushes,  both  shed 
spores,  which  develop  into  prothalli.  So  do  the 


FlG.  68. — Prothallus  of  a  southern  fern  (Pteris  serrulata). 
a,  actual  size  ;  6,  much  magnified. 

lycopodiums,  which,  under  the  names  of  "  ground- 
pine,"  "club-moss,"  or  "  trailing-evergreen,"  are 
familiar  to  almost  every  one  who  has  summered  in 
New  England. 


252    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

The  prothalli  of  the  adders'-tongues  and  of  the 
club-mosses  are  generally  tuberous,  and  grow  half 
buried  in  the  soil,  or  beneath  its  surface.  Those 
of  the  ferns  and  horsetails  are  green  and  leaf-like. 
But  all  are  alike  short-lived;  all  are  quite  destitute 
of  woody  tissue,  and  all  are  very  small  in  com- 
parison to  the  parent-plant. 

The  spores  shed  by  the  largest  of  our  native 
ferns  develop  into  prothalli  less  than  half  an  inch 
wide  in  their  widest  part.  They  lie  pressed  close 
to  the  surface  of  the  ground,  or  sometimes  beneath 
it,  and  being  so  tiny  and  so  retiring  in  their  habits 
it  is  difficult  to  find  them. 

A  pot  in  which  a  fern-plant  has  come  to  matur 
ity  and  shed  its  spores,  will  probably  contain  some 
growing  prothalli,  and  we  may  be  able  to  find  them 
by  careful  turning  over  of  the  surface-soil.  But 
the  details  of  their  structure  can  be  studied  only 
by  aid  of  a  microscope  of  four  or  five  hundred 
diameters. 

By  use  of  the  lenses  we  have  learned  that  after 
the  prothallus  has  "got  its  growth,"  two  sets  of  or- 
gans appear  upon  its  under  surface.  These  fill  the 
same  place  in  the  history  of  the  fern  that  stamens 
and  pistils  do  in  the  history  of  the  flowering 
plant.  They  are  called  antheridia  and  archegonia. 


The  Sporing  of  the  Fern  253 

The  first  antheridia  appear  when  the  prothallus 
is  three  or  four  weeks  old.  They  are  most  often 
formed  toward  the  point  of  the  heart,  and  are 
scattered  over  its  lower  surface,  apparently  without 
definite  order. 

Each  antheridium  is,  at  first,  a  single  cell  pro- 
truding slightly  from  the  surface  of  the  heart,  and 
looking  deceptively  like  a  young  root-hair. 

Grown  older,  it  is  a  little  chamber,  with  a  single 
layer  of  cells  forming  its  encompassing  wall,  and 
with  its  interior  packed  quite  full  of  tiny  globes. 
When  the  antheridium  has  reached  fullest  matur- 
ity the  cells,  which  wall  in  the  little  chamber,  ab- 
sorb water  freely,  swell,  and  burst  open. 

The  minute  globes,  which  have  been  cribbed, 
cabined,  and  confined,  are  now  set  free.  Each 
globe  is  what  botanists  call  a  "mother-cell,"  and 
coiled  up  inside  it  lies 
something  which  looks 
like  a* strap,  with  a  nar- 
rower and  a  broader  end. 
This  is  an  "  antherozoid  "  ^~ 

(Fig.      60).         Soon      after  FlG-  69.-Antherozoids  of  Pteris 
'*  serrulata. 

the  mother-cell  comes  out          <From  the  vegetable  world.) 

of  the  antheridium  it    bursts,   and    the    antherozoid, 

which  has    been    lying    in    it,     curled    up    and    mo- 


254    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

tionless,  finds  itself  thrust  forth  into  the  great 
world. 

Being  cast  upon  his  own  resources  has  had  an 
energizing  and  awakening  effect  upon  many  a  human 
idler  or  Jack-a-dreams.  And  the  little  antherozoid, 
turned  loose,  acts  as  if  it  had  become  instinct  with 
conscious  life. 

Its  coils  draw  apart,  and  we  see  that  at  the 
thicker  end  of  the  spiral  is  a  tiny  drop  of  jelly, 
which  is  all  that  now  remains  of  the  contents  of  the 
mother-cell,  while  at  the  thinner  end  there  is  a  dense 
tuft  of  fine,  curved  filaments. 

These  tremble  and  sway  like  the  fins  of  a  fish, 
and  by  their  aid  the  antherozoid  can  swim  about, 
with  a  motion  so  like  that  of  an  aquatic  animal 
that  one  who  watches  it  is  inclined  to  doubt  that 
it  is  endowed  only  with  the  blind,  unconscious  life 
of  the  vegetable  world.  Hence,  the  tiny  thing  is 
sometimes  called  a  spermatozooid,  for  the  Greek  suf- 
fix zooid  signifies  'Mike  an  animal,"  while*sperma 
means  "  a  germinal  principle  of  life." 

There  is  ample  opportunity  for  the  display  of  its 
natatorial  powers,  for  to  a  swimmer  so  minute 
every  drop  of  dew  is  a  lake. 

While  Nature  has  been  giving  birth  to  these  little 
navigators,  there  have  been  forming,  on  the  cush- 


The  Sporing  of  the  Fern 


255 


ion  of  the  prothallus,  the  archegonia,  which  are  the 
reasons  of  their  being.  An  archegonium  also  be- 
gins life  as  a  single  cell,  on  the  under  surface  of 
the  prothallus.  A  little  later  a  crosswise  parti- 
tion appears,  dividing  the  cell  into  an  upper  and 
a  lower  portion.  More  par- 
titions are  formed,  making  a 
cluster  of  cells,  while  the  life 
of  the  prothallus  mould  the 
plastic  young  tissue  till  the 
maturing  archegonium  takes 
the  shape  of  a  flask,  with  a 
proportionately  very  long  and 
thick  neck,  curved  over  to 
one  side  (Fig.  70). 

The  curve  is  generally  in 
such  a  direction  that  the 
mouth  of  the  flask  points 

toward  an    antheridium. 

FIG.     70.— Young    archego- 

At    first    the    flask  S    mouth       nium  of  a  garden  maiden- 
hair (Adiantum  cuneatum). 

is  closed,  and  its  neck  is  (Much  magnified.) 
filled  with  a  row  of  cells,  called  the  "  neck-canal 
cells."  But  a  little  later  these  dissolve  into  muci- 
lage, and  at  the  same  time  the  lips  of  the  flask 
draw  apart.  And  from  the  flask's  mouth,  at  this 
date  in  its  history,  there  is  discharged  an  acid 


256    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

which  is  attractive — but  we  do  not  yet  know  just 
how  or  why — to  the  spermatozoids. 

Some  rainy  day  or  dewy  night,  when  the  under 
surface  of  the  prothallus  is  wet,  the  active  little 
swimmers  approach  the  open  neck  of  the  arche- 
gonium,  and  are  lured  into  it.  And  down  in  the 
rounded  part  of  the  flask  they  find  the  "affinity" 
which  they  have  been  unconsciously  seeking,  a 
naked  globe  of  colorless  jelly  known  as  the  "  oo- 
sphere." One  spermatozoid  enters  the  oosphere, 
and  mingles  with  it,  and  with  this  act  of  fusion 
the  life-purpose  of  the  prothallus  is  accomplished. 

The  now  fertilized  oosphere  surrounds  itself  with 
a  delicate  membrane,  and  becomes  the  "  oospore." 

So  again  in  the  life-history  of  the  fern  we  have 
come  around  to  the  single  "  cell"  or  globe  of  pro- 
toplasm from  which  we  can  trace  the  development 
of  every  living  organism. 

From  the  first  globe — the  fern-spore — creative 
Nature  made  the  tiny  heart-shaped  prothallus. 
From  the  second  globe, — the  oospore, — she  will 
make  the  perfect  fern. 

A  prothallus  may  form  a  number  of  archegonia 
before  a  spermotozoid  finds  its  way  into  any  one 
of  them.  But  as  soon  as  an  archegonium  is  fer- 
tilized no  new  ones  appear,  and  the  remaining  life 


The  Sporing  of  the  Fern  257 

of  the  prothallus  is  expended  in  nourishing  the 
oospore.  Sometimes  it  so  happens  that  several 
sister  oospores  are  ready  to  grow  at  the  same 
time.  But  generally  in  this  case  one  dominates 
the  rest  in  the  great  struggle  for  life,  and  draws 
into  itself  all  the  nutriment  which  the  prothallus 
can  bestow.  And  so  a  prothallus  seldom  gives 
rise  to  more  than  one  little  fern. 

If  a  prothallus  is  insufficiently  nourished  it  may 
bear  antheridia  only,  and  no  archegionia  at  all. 
Such  "  male"  prothalli  are  apt  to  develop  after  an 
eccentric  fashion  of  their  own.  They  are  often  long 
and  narrow,  sometimes  almost  filamentous  in  form 
and  grow  into  irregular  projections.  In  fact,  they 
are  sometimes  <4  all  bubukles,  whelks,  and  knobs," 
like  BardoJph's  countenance. 

They  are  relatively  small,  and  may  even  be 
reduced  to  a  single  vegetative  cell,  an  antheridium, 
and  a  few  root-hairs. 

Several  common  native  ferns,  notably  the  great 
Osmundas,  always  give  origin  to  a  number  of  starve- 
ling "  male  "  prothalli,  in  addition  to  the  larger  and 
more  symmetrical  ones  which  bear  both  antheridia 
and  archegonia. 

And  in  a  few  flowerless  aquatic  plants,  closely 
akin  to  ferns,  all  the  prothalli  are  either  male  or 


258    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

female.  In  a  few  fern-allies  the  prothallus — male 
or  female  as  the  case  may  be — is  minute  and  color- 
less, and  remains  throughout  its  brief  life  partially 
enclosed  within  the  spore  from  which  it  grew. 
From  such  plants  as  this  there  is  but  a  short 
upward  step  to  the  cone-bearing  trees. 

But  all  our  familiar  ferns  of  wood,  rock,  and 
roadside,  the  "Filices"  of  the  working  botanist 
become  parents  of  prothalli  which  escape  from  the 
spore  in  their  earliest  youth,  and  live  thereafter  as 
independent  plants,  growing  on  the  surface  of  the 
earth,  and  getting  their  own  honest  living  by  aid 
of  a  working-outfit  of  chlorophyll  and  root-hairs. 

So  there  is  in  ferns  a  true  alternation  of  genera- 
tions. The  fern  gives  birth  to  a  prothallus,  and 
the  prothallus  gives  birth  to  a  fern.  In  this  curious 
genealogy  there  is  no  resemblance  between  parent 
and  offspring,  but  the  offspring  is  a  young  copy  of 
its  grandparent. 

The  fern  prothallus  corresponds  to  a  small  frac- 
tion of  the  blossom  in  a  flowering-plant.  To  prove 
this  it  would  be  necessary  to  plunge  so  deeply  into 
structural  botany  that  the  reader  might  find  the 
comparison,  like  many  another,  odious. 

The  life-story  of  the  prothallus  resembles  that  of 
the  flower  in  these  respects,  that  it  lives  to  accom- 


The  Sporing  of  the  Fern  259 

plish  one  purpose, — that  this  purpose  is  the  fusion 
of  two  reproductive  cells,  one  male  and  the  other 
female, — and  that  when  this  life-work  is  finished  it 
dies.  And  as  the  unfertilized  flower  lives  long  past 
its  normal  time  of  blooming,  still  waiting  for  breeze 
or  insect  to  bring  it  pollen  wherewith  to  set  its 
seed,  the  unfertilized  prothallus  may  continue  to 
grow  for  several  months,  or  even,  in  the  case  of 
the  Osmunda,  for  years. 

But  as  soon  as  spermatozoids  have  entered  the 
archegonia,  and  one  or  two  oospores  have  been 
formed,  the  prothallus  begins  to  wither. 

The  oospore  is  soon  cut  into  two  parts  by  a 
vertical  partition,  and  then  into  four  by  a  horizon- 
tal one.  Three  of  these  divisions  become  the  stem, 
leaf  and  first  root  of  the  young  fern.  The  fourth 
becomes  an  organ  termed  "  the  foot"  by  means  of 
which  the  fern  draws  its  support  from  the  parent 
prothallus  till  it  is  old  enough  to  shift  for  itself. 
By  that  time  the  prothallus  is  quite  depleted  and 
exhausted. 

After  the  fern  has  passed  its  earliest  youth  the 
first-formed  or  "primary"  root  withers  away. 

In  most  native  species  the  main  stem  lies  hori- 
zontally along  the"  surface  of  the  earth,  or  just 
beneath  it.  The  leaves  or  "fronds"  spring  from 


Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

its  upper  side,  and  a 
number  of  small,  branch- 
ing rootlets  arise,  without 
regularity  or  system,  from 
its  lower  surface.  Some- 
times the  half-buried  main 
stem,  or  "  rootstock,"  is 
many  inches  long,  and 
at  one  end  of  it  there  is 
a  large  actively-dividing 
cell — the  growing  point. 
But  in  the  tropical  tree- 
ferns  the  main  stem  stands 
erect,  and  the  "  growing 
point"  is  at  its  tip-top. 
When  our  native  ferns 
appear  above  ground  in 
spring,  their  leaves,  or 
fronds,  are  rolled  down- 
ward from  the  tips  like 
croziers,  and  by  this  token 
we  can  distinguish  them 
si?  from  their  near  kindred, 
the  adder's  -  tongues 
FIG. 71.— "Male-fern" (A spidium  (Ophioglossaceae),  which 

felix-maas),  showing  the  pros-   v 

trate  root-stock  and  the  down-  enter    the    world     upright. 

ward  roll  and  scaly  covering  of 

the  young  fronds.  The    roly-poly  ferns    of 

(From  the  Vegetable  World.) 


The  Sporing  of  the  Fern  261 

early  spring  are  generally  hairy  or  scaly  (Fig.  71), 
with  brown  transparent  outgrowths  which  help  to 
protect  the  tender  frond  from  cold  snaps  and  bitter 
winds.  Later  in  the  season  hairs  and  chaffy  scales 
may  still  be  seen  clinging  to  the  fern-stalk  and 
sometimes  almost  covering  its  lower  portion.  Under 
the  microscope  these  scales  are  seen  to  consist  each 
of  a  single  layer  of  cells,  with  thickened  brown 
walls,  through  which  a  mucilaginous  or  resinous 
liquid  oozes.  Gold  and  silver  ferns  have  their 
under  surfaces  covered  with  hairs  which  exude  re- 
sinous and  waxy  substances. 

But  the  trick  of  developing  hairs  is  best  under- 
stood by  the  tree-ferns,  whose  young  leaves  are 
completely  buried  in  a  brown  mass  of  vegetable 
fur,  sometimes  utilized  by  robber  man  for  stuffing 
matresses. 

By  latter  July  most  native  ferns  have  attained 
maturity,  and  on  the  backs  of  the  fronds,  in  many 
species,  we  can  see  dots  and  dashes  of  silver-green, 
dark-green,  or  brown.  These  are  "sori,"  and 
their  general  plan  can  be  readily  seen  with  a 
pocket-lens. 

Typically  each  sorus  consists  of  a  little  scale  or 
lid,  covering  a  group,  or  perhaps  two  groups,  of 
stalked  sporangia,  and  each  sporangium  is  a  little 


262    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

round  or  watch-shaped  box  filled  with  spores  (Fig. 
72).  The  sporangia  of  many  ferns  are  nearly  sur- 
rounded by  an  incomplete  ring  of  large  cells,  whose 
brownish  walls  are  of  a  substance  akin  to  cork.  As 
the  sporangium  grows  older  the 
outer  walls  of  these  cells  dry 
and  shrink;  and  as  this  shrink- 
ing proceeds,  the  incomplete 
ring  begins  to  straighten  itself 
out.  By  so  doing  it  pulls 
upon  the  surrounding  tissue 
and  ruptures  the  sporangium, 
scattering  the  dust-like  spores 
to  the  four  winds.  The  spo- 
rangia of  the  great  Osmundas 
have  no  encompassing  ring,  but 

FIG.  72. — Opening  sporan- 
gium of  a  Florida    fern   they  are  sp}it   by  the   action   of 
(Pteris   cretica).      (Much 

magnified.)  a    little  group    of    corky  cells, 

which  shrink  together  as  they    grow  old,    and  thus 
first  strain  and  then  rend  the  neighboring  tissue. 

The  spores  of  native  outdoor-ferns  remain  dor- 
mant through  the  winter  and  grow  into  prothalli 
in  the  spring. 

The  Hartford  climbing-fern,  the  common  sensi- 
tive-fern (Fig.  73),  and  a  few  others  have  insti- 
tuted a  division  of  labor  by  which  some  fronds 


FIG.  73. — Vegetative  and  spore-bearing  fronds  of  the  sensitive  fern 

(Onoclea  sensibilis). 

263 


The  Sporing  of  the  Fern  265 

fulfil  all  the  offices  of  foliage,  while  others,  which 
are  curiously  contracted,  produce  sporangia  and  do 
nothing  else.  The  spore-bearing  fronds  of  the  sen- 
sitive-fern, browned  and  desiccated  by  the  winter 
storms,  are  conspicuous  amid  the  tender  greenery 
of  low-lying  fields  in  early  spring.  The  royal 
Osmunda,  called  "  flowering-fern  "  also  practices 
division  of  labor,  but  practices  it  less  completely, 
for  the  lower  part  of  the  great  frond  is  green  and 
leaf-like,  while  the  upper  portion  is  a  plumy  mass 
of  densely-crowded  sporangia. 

The  development  of  these  sporangia  begins  in 
early  spring,  before  the  fronds  unroll,  and  they 
attain  their  full  growth  by  the  first  of  June.  So 
the  royal  Osmunda  takes  more  than  a  month's  pre- 
cedence of  less  methodical  ferns,  which  make  all 
fronds  serve  both  purposes. 

The  sporangium  in  all  the  true  ferns  is  formed 
from  a  single  superficial  cell.  This  cell  grows  so 
as  to  project  above  the  general  surface  of  the 
frond,  and  when  it  is  hemispherical  it  is  cut  in 
two  by  a  crosswise  partition. 

The  inner  section  will  become  the  stalk  of  the 
sporangium,  and  the  rounded  outer  portion  will 
eventually  be  fashioned  into  the  sporangium  itself. 

But   in  the  adder's-tongues  and  some  other  fern-. 


266    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

allies  the  sporangia  are  developed  each  from  a  little 
cluster  of  superficial  cells. 

Upon  this  difference  botany  divides  the  ferns 
and  their  nearest  of  kin  into  two  great  groups. 

The  adder's-tongues  (Ophioglossacese)  belong  to 
the  smaller  and  older  of  these  groups — the  Euspor- 
angiatese.  They  are  feeble  descendants  of  a  very 
ancient  and  once  powerful  and  numerous  family 
and  are  distantly  related  to  the  great  ferns  of  the 
coal  measures,  which  were  also  Eusporangiateae. 

But  the  majority  of  our  native  ferns  are  not,  as 
is  so  often  asserted,  the  depauperate  progeny  of  a 
doughty  race.  They  are  ll  Leptosporangiatese, "  and 
form  their  sporangia  each  from  a  single  cell.  This 
is  the  more  modern  method,  and  is  followed  by  the 
younger  branch  of  the  fern  family  (Filicinae). 

The  great  majority  of  our  native  ferns  belong  to 
a  younger  branch  of  this  younger  branch,  the  Poly- 
podiaceae,  which,  as  we  know  from  the  testimony  of 
the  rocks,  did  not  make  their  appearance  till  within 
comparatively  recent  times.  They  have  multiplied 
and  have  taken  possession  of  the  land,  setting 
aside  the  law  of  primogeniture  as  Jacob  did  of  old. 

The  disinherited  Eusporangiateae  are  represented 
in  our  country  only  by  the  moonworts  and  the 
adder's-tongue  (Ophioglossum  vulgatum).  There 


The  Sporing  of  the  Fern 


267 


are  but  seven  species  in  all,  and  their  largest  and 
most  important  member  is  barely  two  feet  tall, 
while  sixty-five  species  of  the  Leptosporangiateae 
are  found  north  of  the  southern  boundary  of  Vir- 
ginia, and  even  in  Canadian  forest-clearings  some 
of  them  grow  breast-high. 

As  we  go  southward  the  Leptosporangiateae  in- 
crease in  number  and  in  size,  till  in  tropical  woods 
the  tall  shafts  of  the  tree-ferns  rise  like  the  columns 
of  a  great  cathedral  and  the  long  fronds  curve 
upward  from  their  tops  like  springing  gothic 
arches.  One  who  has  seen  these  truly  "  cathedral 
woods"  is  quite  disabused  of  the  prevalent  but 
mistaken  notion  that  the  fern  family  as  a  whole 
has  "  fallen  on  evil  days"  (Fig.  74). 


FIG.  74. — Spores  of  a  club-moss  (Lycofodium  complanatum). 
(Much  magnified.) 


CHAPTER   XII 

THE    SENIORS   OF   THE    FOREST 

"Cedars  blossom,  though  few  people  know  it, 
And  look  all  dipped  in  sunshine  like  a  poet." 

—Lowell. 

THE  evergeen  woods  have  a  character  distinc- 
tively their  own.  This  is  most  evident  in  winter, 
when  they  stand  robed  in  living  green  while  the 
deciduous  trees  are  etched  in  soft  grays  against  the 
sky,  but  it  is  noticeable  at  all  seasons. 

They  may  almost  be  said  to  have  a  flora  of  their 
own,  for  some  blossoms  blow  beneath  the  ever- 
greens which  are  not  found  elsewhere,  and  others 
thrive  best  on  the  mat  of  fallen  needles  which 
covers  the  ground  under  pines  and  hemlocks. 

First  and  sweetest  of  these  is  the  trailing-arbutus 
or  May-flower.  It  fades  as  spring  advances,  and  is 
followed  by  a  number  of  the  smaller  and  humbler 
orchids,  little  cousins  of  the  stemless  lady-slipper, 
which  appears  in  June,  and  which  is  the  last  and 
almost  the  only  showy  blossom  of  the  evergreen 

woods. 

268 


The  Seniors  of  the  Forest  269 

In  July  pine-roots  give  a  home  and  a  main- 
tenance to  some  curious  parasitic  plants — "  pine- 
drops,"  "pine-sap,"  and  "Indian-pipe,"  or  "ghost- 
flower."  In  latter  summer  the  only  bits  of  color 
on  the  ground  are  fungi, — white,  yellow,  orange, 
and  red, — which  come  pushing  through  the  mat  of 
fallen  pine-needles  on  which  they  live  and  feed. 

There  are  few  bees  in  the  evergreen  woods,  and 
fewer  butterflies.  The  birds  seen  in  the  shadowy 
aisles  are  the  little  warblers,  which  converse  in  low 
trills  and  twitterings.  The  joyous  ringing  bird- 
strains  will  be  heard  in  copse  or  swale,  in  orchard, 
or  meadow, — not  in  the  far  withdrawing  vistas  which 
lead  between  these  pillared  trunks  to  deeper  solitudes. 

The  brooding  silence  of  the  evergreen  woods  is 
broken  only  by  the  occasional  chatter  of  a  squirrel, 
by  wind  passing  through  the  boughs  with  a  sound 
like  the  wash  of  waves  on  far-off  shingle,  and,  per- 
haps, by  the  tremulous  whistle  of  the  pine-linnet, 
or  the  bell-like  notes  of  the  hermit-thrush. 

Here  and  there,  under  the  trees,  are  those 
cousins  of  the  ferns  which  look  so  confusingly  like 
evergreens  that  they  have  received  the  names  of 
"  ground-pine  "  and  "  trailing-hemlock." 

They  are  fitting  companions  to  the  pine-trees, 
for  both  represent  the  vegetable  life  of  the  elder 


270    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

world.  The  group  of  the  cone-bearers  to  which 
the  hemlock,  cedar,  pine,  spruce,  and  fir,  as  well  as 
the  arbor-vitae  and  the  larch,  belong,  were  the  first- 
born of  flowering-plants.  They  are  the  link,  con- 
necting ferns  and  their  allies  with  the  kindred  of 
the  lily  and  of  the  rose. 

All  native  cone-bearers  belong  to  one  botanic 
group,  the  Pine  family,  and  this  divides  itself  into 
two  very  unequal  branches,  the  true  pine  connec- 
tion (Pinaceae)  and  the  yews  (Taxaceae). 

All  our  wild  evergreens,  except  the  yews,  are 
numbered  among  the  pinacere,  and  so  are  the  larch 
and  the  "  bald  "-cypress  of  the  Southern  States, 
which  are  not  evergreen.  The  Taxaceae  are  repre- 
sented in  this  country  by  a  couple  of  small  garden- 
shrubs,  by  the  European  yew,  and  the  gingko  or 
"  maiden-hair  tree"  of  cultivated  grounds,  and  by 
the  wild  yew  or  ground-hemlock  which  straggles 
over  barren  northern  hillsides. 

The  sprouting  yew,  like  the  baby-bean  or  maple, 
appears  above  ground  with  two  seed-leaves  and  so 
do  the  seedling  juniper,  cedar,  and  arbor-vitae. 
But  the  pine,  spruce,  fir,  and  hemlock  begin  at 
once  to  show  some  characteristics  which  prove  their 
pedigree,  and  distinguish  them  from  the  kin  of  the 
lily  or  of  the  rose. 


The  Seniors  of  the  Forest 


271 


For    these    seedlings   enter   the    world   with    what 
children  call  "  a  great  plenty  "  of 
first  leaves,  from  three  to  sixteen 
of     them,     ar- 
ranged like  the 
spokes      of      a 
wheel  (Fig. 75). 
These  are  need- 
le-shaped,   and 
the  leaves  which 
follow  them    are   also   needle- 
shaped  or  scale-like,  and  differ 
markedly  from  the  broad,  flat 
foliage  borne  by  the  beeches, 
oaks,   and   maples. 

Thus  our  native  cone-bearers 
are  fitted  to  cope  with  the 
rather  trying  circumstances  in 
which  their  lives  are  spent. 
For  hemlocks,  spruces,  pines, 
firs,  and  red  cedars  inhabit 
coasts,  mountains,  and  high 
latitudes. 

All     down     the     Atlantic 


shore  from   Maine  to  southern 


FIG.  75. — A  seedling  pine. 


Florida    pines,   cedars,   and    junipers    form  a   natural 


272    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

wind-break,  sheltering  the  deciduous  trees  which 
grow  further  inland  from  the  first  keenness  of 
ocean  blasts;  and  in  many  places  evergreen  woods 
border  on  the  great  lakes,  and  bear  the  brunt  of 
their  gales. 

As  one  ascends  high  mountains  the  broad-leaved 
trees  grow  fewer,  till  at  last,  all  the  rough  slopes 
are  clothed  with  the  sombre  green  of  spruces  and 
pines.  Indeed  the  word  "pine"  is  derived  from 
the  Celtic  "  pin,"  a  crag,  which  is  preserved  in 
the  names  of  some  Scotch  and  Welsh  mountains — 
"  Ben  Lomond,"  "  Ben  Nevis,"  and  "  Penmaen- 
Mawr." 

The  forests  of  Maine  and  Canada  are  largely 
evergreen,  and  as  one  travels  northward  deciduous 
trees  are  left  behind,  till,  at  last,  all  the  land  is  in 
possession  of  the  spire-shaped  spruces  and  the 
pines. 

Coast  and  mountain  evergreens  must  brave  rough 
winds,  and  evergreens  of  high  latitudes  must  be 
enabled  to  shed  the  snows  of  northern  winters. 

So  Nature  has  fitted  them  for  their  circumstances 
by  giving  them  the  stiff,  slender  leaves  which  are 
popularly  called  "  needles,"  or,  as  in  the  case  of 
the  arbor-vitae,  scale-like  foliage,  which  invests 
the  branches  as  tiles  cover  a  roof.  However  fierce 


The  Seniors  of  the  Forest  273 

the  gale,  such  leaves  cannot  be  torn  as  spreading 
foliage  would  probably  be  if  it  grew  in  similar 
situations  and  the  slippery  needles  of  northern 
evergreens  shed  snow  masses  which  would  break 
broad-leaved  trees  to  pieces. 

Some  years  ago  southern  Ohio  was  visited  by  a 
moderately  heavy  snow-storm  in  mid-May,  when 
all  the  summer  leaves  were  out.  Their  broad  sur- 
faces caught  and  held  the  flakes,  and  the  boughs 
were  soon  over-weighted.  All  hands  turned  out 
with  poles,  rakes,  and  broomsticks  to  beat  the 
snow  off  cherished  trees,  but,  despite  much  zealous 
exertion,  aided  by  a  May-time  sun,  many  branches 
crashed  down  in  a  few  hours.  The  experience 
showed  the  probable  effect  of  northern  snows  upon 
evergreens  if  they  bore  broad  leaves. 

But  the  needles  of  pines,  hemlocks,  and  firs  shed 
the  flakes  from  their  curved  and  shining  surfaces  and 
allow  them  to  fall  through  the  feathery  branches 
toward  the  ground.  Snow  occasionally  gathers 
upon  the  trees  in  masses  sufficient  to  form  a  beau- 
tiful contrast  to  their  sombre  green,  but  its  hold  on 
the  slippery  needles  is  so  insecure  that  the  least 
puff  of  wind  suffices  to  dislodge  it. 

The  broad-leaved  evergreens,  laurel,  laurestinas, 
holly,  bay,  and  live-oak  are  native  to  climates 


274    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

where  snow  seldom  falls  heavily,  and  never  lies  in 
unwieldy  masses. 

The  little  needle-shaped  or  scale-like  leaves  of 
northern  evergreens  make  up  in  number  what  they 
lack  in  size. 

But  though  the  trees  are  evergreen  their  leaves 
are  not.  One  by  one  they  fade  and  fall,  till,  in 
the  course  of  a  few  years  the  entire  foliage  has 
been  shed.  Thus  the  spruce  drops  all  its  needles 
in  the  course  of  six  or  seven  years.  The  yew- 
leaves  fall  after  they  have  weathered  the  gales  of 
about  eight  winters,  and  the  leaves  of  the  silver-fir 
drop  to  the  ground  when  they  have  reached  the 
ripe  old  age  of  twelve  years.  The  discoloration  of 
ageing  leaves  is  not  noticed  amid  the  general 
greenness  of  their  surroundings,  and  the  void  made 
by  their  fall  is  soon  filled  by  fresh  individuals. 

The  larch  in  the  North  and  the  "  bald-cypress  " 
in  the  South  have  departed  widely  from  the  family 
custom  of  the  cone-bearers.  Like  the  broad-leaved 
trees  they  drop  their  foliage  each  autumn,  and 
they  appear  in  spring  clothed  in  complete  new 
suits  of  tender  green. 

The  true  evergreens  which  retain  their  needles 
throughout,  assume  a  sombre  tint  witli  the  coming 
of  the  first  heavy  frosts.  This  is  because  the 


The  Seniors  of  the  Forest  275 

chlorophyll-bodies  which  give  the  foliage  its  hue 
lose  their  vivid  color  in  the  autumn  and  change  to 
a  brownish-green. 

The  pines  and  hemlocks  are  most  noticeable  in 
winter,  when  there  is  no  other  green 
in  the  landscape  and  when  they  are 
contrasted  with  the  snow;  but  in  reality 
their  color  is  more  intense  in  summer. 
For  in  the  first  warm  days  of  spring 
the  chlorophyll  bodies  in  the  needle- 
shaped  leaves  resume  their  characteristic 
color,  and  with  it  their  "  activity  of 
toil." 

New-born  pine-leaves  issue  in  pairs, 
trios,  or  fives,  from  little  brown  buds, 
which  are  covered  with  delicate  semi- 
transparent  scales.  These  are  regarded 
as  altered  "  needles,"  just  as  the  scales  FiG.~76.— Leaf 
which  protect  the  winter- buds  of  many  ^u<j  erSCales 
broad-leaved  trees  are  altered  leaves.  pjne  (pinus 

The  new  needles  of  the  white  pine 
(Fig.  76)  come  into  the  world  in  fives.  Those  of 
the  Jersey  or  scrub-pine  are  twins,  and  those  of 
the  pitch-pine  grow  in  clusters  of  three.  Each  of 
our  twenty-two  native  pines  is  faithful  to  some  old 
family  custom  in  this  respect,  so  that  if  we  count 


276    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

the  needles  issuing  from  the  bud  we  have  observed 
one  of  the  characteristics  by  which  we  may  deter- 
mine its  species. 

After  the  leaf-cluster  is  mature  the  little  brown 
bud-scales  which  sheltered  its  youth  drop  away  and 
fall.  A  slow,  gentle  shower  of  them  drips  earth- 
ward in  the  pine-woods  all  through  the  latter  year, 
and  adds  largely  to  that  soft,  mouldering  carpet 
which  covers  the  ground  beneath  the  trees. 

In  the  balsam-fir  and  in  the  yew-tree  each  needle 
has  its  own  guardian  scale-leaf,  and  the  foliage  is 
distributed  evenly  over  the  surface  of  the  bough 

(Fig.  77). 

Within  the  needle-like  leaves  of  the  pines  and 
their  cousins  there  is  no  delicate  network  of 
branching-veins  such  as  we  see  in  the  foliage  of 
oaks  and  maples.  Instead,  there  is  one  compact 
bundle  of  vessels  and  tubes,  through  which  plant- 
fluids  creep  out  toward  the  sunlight  to  be 
digested,  and  then  back  again  to  growing  roots  and 
shoots.  This  bundle  lies  at  the  very  centre  of  the 
leaf,  and  is  sheathed,  and  in  a  measure  protected 
from  cold  by  an  enclosing  tube  of  thick  cells  with 
corky  walls.  Outside  this  corky  tube  lies  the 
green  substance  of  the  leaf,  composed  of  delicate 
cells  containing  chlorophyll. 


FIG.  77. — A  spray  of  the  balsam-fir  (Abies  balsamea}. 

277 


The  Seniors  of  the  Forest  279 

This  tissue,  like  the  bundle  of  vessels,  is  guarded 
by  Nature  against  frosts  and  winds,  for  outside 
the  delicate  green  cells  there  is  a  tough  encompass- 
ing layer,  or,  it  may  be,  several  layers,  of  fibrous 
cells  with  very  thick  walls.  These  strengthen  the 
leaf,  rendering  it  less  liable  to  be  broken  by  gales, 
and  they  also  serve,  in  a  measure,  to  protect  the 
inner  tissues  from  sudden  changes  of  temperature 
and  from  the  drying  effect  of  high  winds.  Then, 
outside  all,  is  the  leaf-skin  or  epidermis,  which  is 
also  thick  and  fibrous. 

The  stomata  are  distributed  evenly  over  the  sur- 
faces of  these  needle-shaped  leaves.  They  pierce 
through  the  epidermis,  and  through  the  fibrous 
tissue  beneath  it,  to  the  delicate  green  cells  which 
may  have  superfluous  moisture  to  breathe  away. 
But  as  the  cone-bearers  often  live  on  stony  ground 
and  in  wind-swept  situations,  it  is  desirable  that 
their  leaves  shall  not  part  too  readily  with  their 
vegetable  juices.  So  each  stoma  opens  at  the  base 
of  a  depression  in  the  leaf-surface,  where  it  is 
somewhat  sheltered  from  the  direct  sunlight. 

Even  in  New  England  there  are  a  number  of 
birds  which  do  not  join  the  great  southward  migra- 
tion, but  stay  to  brave  winter  and  rough  weather. 
During  latter  autumn  this  remnant  is  reenforced 


280    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

by  the  arrival  of  birds  from  the  North,  to  whom 
our  latitudes  are  what  Florida  is  to  shivery  people 
of  elegant  leisure.  In  the  vicinity  of  Norfolk  and 
of  Cincinnati  the  bird-life  of  the  leafless  woods  is 
almost  as  full  and  intense  as  that  of  the  summer. 
But  when  the  wind  swoops  down  from  the  North, 
and  deciduous  trees  afford  no  protection,  the  ever- 
greens offer  the  birds  a  refuge  in  the  time  of 
trouble.  Here  they  find  both  shelter  and  food, 
for  after  the  "  hips  and  the  haws  are  all  gone," 
and  snow  has  covered  the  earth,  a  living  can  still 
be  eked  out,  thanks  to  the  juniper  berries  and  the 
seeds  of  the  cone-bearing  trees. 

Cedars  and  junipers  make  an  especially  effective 
wind-screen,  and  on  the  eve  of  a  bitter  night  little 
birds  gather  in  numbers  on  the  branches  of  these 
trees,  close  to  the  trunk. 

The  habit  of  growth  of  the  cone-bearers  is 
similar  to  that  of  the  oaks  and  maples  and  other 
kindred  of  the  rose.  The  ascending  stream  of 
water  from  the  roots  passes  through  the  younger 
wood,  while  the  descending  stream  of  sap  from  the 
leaves  moves  through  the  inner  bark.  The  tree 
grows  thicker  as  it  grows  older,  and  between  bark 
and  wood,  each  growing  season,  there  is  a  ring  of 
actively-dividing  cells  which  are  building  up  new 


The  Seniors  of  the  Forest  281 

tissue.  The  oldest  wood  is  at  the  centre  of  the 
trunk,  and  the  newest  is  just  beneath  the  bark 
(Fig.  78). 

But    in    many    cone-bearers    and    notably    in    the 
white  pine,  the   heart-wood   undergoes    little    altera- 


FIG.  78. — Crosswise  section  of  the  trunk  of  a  fir-tree,  showing 

growth-rings. 
(From  the  Vegetable  World.) 

tion  as  the  tree  matures,  and  it  can  resume  the 
industry  of  former  years,  if  necessary,  and  conduct 
water  upward  toward  the  thirsty  leaves.  Indeed 
so  great  is  its  versatility  that  it  can  make  shift  to 
fill,  after  a  fashion,  the  offices  of  young  wood  and 
of  bark,  so  that  plant-fluids  still  ascend  and 
descend  slowly  even  in  a  girdled  pine. 


282    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

In  addition  to  this  capacity  of  their  wood  for  meet- 
ing an  emergency,  the  cone-bearers  have  another 
peculiarity  which  helps  them  to  survive  misfortune. 

For  in  all  our  native  evergreens  except  the 
yew,  the  wood  contains  a  quantity  of  resin.  In 
the  living  tree  this  resin  is  held  in  solution  in  oil 
of  turpentine,  and  the  two  together  make  a  clear, 
sticky  fluid  known  as  "  balsam."  In  the  larch, 
pine,  and  fir  there  are  little  wells  of  it  in  the 
trunk  and  branches,  and  sometimes  even  in  the 
leaves.  The  balsam  of  the  fir  is  so  abundant  and 
adhesive  that  the  Canadians  and  Indians  made  use 
of  it  for  tightening  the  seams  of  their  canoes. 

"Give  me  of  your  balm,  O  fir-tree," 
cries  Hiawatha, 

"  Of  your  balsam  and  your  resin, 
So  to  close  the  seams  together, 
That  the  water  may  not  enter. 
And  the  fir-tree,  tall  and  sombre, 
Sobbed  through  all  its  robes  of  darkness, 
Take  my  balm,  O  Hiawatha." 

The  balsam  pours  out  wherever  the  wood  is 
wounded,  and,  by  exposure  to  air  and  sun,  it 
stiffens  and  forms  a  plaster  for  the  torn  tissues. 
This  preserves  the  life  of  the  wood,  which,  if  left 
unprotected,  would  soon  have  all  its  vital  juices 
dried  away. 


The  Seniors  of  the  Forest  283 

So  girdled  cone-bearers  have  been  known  to  ex- 
ist for  forty  years.  Indeed  a  pine  has  "  as  many 
lives  as  a  cat."  We  realize  this  when  we  see  the 
pitch-pines  at  home,  in  the  "  turpentine  country" 
of  Georgia.  Deeply  wounded,  or  even  girdled,  and 
all  bare  save  for  a  tuft  or  two  at  the  top,  they 
still  live,  and  remind  one  of  Charles  the  Second 
who  was  "  such  an  unconscionable  time  a-dying. " 

Were  it  not  for  these  peculiarities  of  structure, 
girdled  pines  would  share  the  fate  of  girdled-oaks 
and  maples,  which  seldom  survive  their  injuries  for 
more  than  three  or  four  years.  In  these  trees  the 
heart-wood,  which  has  retired  from  active  service, 
can  never  resume  its  conductive  duties,  and  there 
is  no  balsam  which  can  be  converted  into  sur- 
geons'-plaster  in  time  of  need. 

So  the  wood  which  is  laid  bare  dries  out  more 
and  more,  and  as  soon  as  the  drying  has  penetrated 
the  outer  or  vital  part  of  the  trunk  plant-fluids 
can  no  longer  move  between  leaves  and  roots,  cir- 
culation stops,  and  the  tree  dies. 

Though  the  cross-section  of  a  pine-tree  is  much 
like  that  of  an  oak,  their  woody  tissues  have  a 
different  aspect  under  the  microscope. 

The  wood  of  the  cone-bearers  is  almost  entirely 
composed  of  "  tracheids,"  which  are  little  tubes 


284    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 


tapering  to  a  point  at  either  end  (Fig.  79).  Most 
of  these  run  lengthwise  of  trunk  or  boughs,  and  in 
/  their  walls  there  are  circles  or 
ovals  at  regular  distances 
apart.  Each  of  these  is  a 
little  plate  of  very  thin  tissue, 
set  into  the  partition  between 
two  tracheids,  and  framed  on 
both  sides  by  a  ring-shaped 
bulge  in  the  tracheid-wall. 
The  whole  affair  looks  like 
a  tiny  circle  surrounded  by  a 
halo.  When  the  tracheids 
were  young  and  full  of  pro- 
toplasm, plant-fluids  were 
drawn  through  the  thin  spots, 
and  thus  a  vital  communica- 
tion was  kept  up  through  all 

FIG.  79. — Tracheids  of  the 

fir-tree.  (Magnified.)  the  maturing  tissue.  But  by 
the  time  the  tracheid  is  fully  developed  the  proto- 
plasm which  has  filled  it  disappears,  and  the  mature 
wood  of  a  cone  bearer  contains  little  else  but  a 
film  of  water  on  the  tracheid-walls.  So  most  of 
the  "bordered  pits"  are  no  longer  useful  in  the 
vegetable  economy. 

The    Coniferae    combine    the    utmost    grandure    of 


The  Seniors  of  the  Forest  285 

form  with  the  greatest  simplicity  of  floral  structure. 
They  are  among  the  earliest  terrestrial  plants 
known  to  us.  They  are  "  the  seniors  of  the 
forest," — surviving  types  from  a  younger  world. 
They  were  many  and  prosperous  in  the  geologic 
"  Age  of  Reptiles,"  when  animal  life  swam  and 
crawled  but  had  scarcely  yet  begun  to  run  or  fly. 

The  first  flowers  the  young  world  saw  were 
borne  by  the  Coniferae,  and  as  there  were  no 
winged  insects  in  those  days,  the  trees  had  to  send 
pollen  to  one  another  by  the  wind.  Now,  when 
the  summer  air  is  full  of  possible  pollen-carriers 
ready  for  errands,  and  when  less  conservative 
flower-families  have  learned  to  rely  altogether  upon 
their  ministrations,  the  Coniferae  depend,  as  of  old, 
upon  the  wind  alone.  They  are  like  the  people  of 
some  unprogressive  communities,  who  cling  to  old 
methods  of  work,  and  look  askance  on  modern 
machinery  and  labor-saving  devices. 

As  the  Coniferae  can  carry  on  their  affairs  without 
the  aid  of  flying  messengers,  they  are  able  to  per- 
petuate themselves  abundantly  in  cold  regions, 
while  gay  blossoms,  which  cannot  set  their  seed 
without  the  ministrations  of  insects,  are  practically 
restricted  to  latitudes  where  the  climate  is  favor- 
able to  the  life  of  their  winged  friends. 


286    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

Darwin  has  pointed  out  that  in  parts  of  the 
world  where  the  summers  are  short  and  chill  the 
land  belongs  to  wind-fertilized  plants,  rushes,  grasses, 
sedges,  and  cone-bearers. 

And  so  the  plants  which  entrust  their  future  to 
the  wind  have,  on  the  whole,  a  wider  geographical 
range.  But  in  pollen-sending,  as  in  some  other 
undertakings,  newer  methods  make  for  economy, 
and  the  old  way  of  doing  things  is  wasteful.  The 
Coniferae  have  to  produce  so  much  pollen  that 
there  shall  still  be  enough  for  all  needs  after  a 
great  quantity  of  the  precious  dust  has  been  car- 
ried wide  of  its  destination  by  vagrant  winds. 

So  when  the  cone-bearing  trees  blossom,  in  May 
or  June,  their  blown  pollen  is  everywhere.  It 
covers  the  surfaces  of  still  waters,  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  evergreen  woods.  Whole  bucketfuls  of 
it  have  been  swept  off  the  decks  of  vessels  sailing 
close  to  the  coast  of  North  America.  One  observer 
has  seen  the  ground  near  St.  Louis  covered  with 
pollen,  as  if  sprinkled  with  sulphur,  and  there  was 
good  reason  to  believe  that  it  had  been  transported 
from  pine  forests,  400  miles  to  the  south.  "  Kerner 
has  seen  the  snow-fields  of  the  higher  Alps  sim- 
ilarly dusted,"  says  Darwin,  "  and  another  nat- 
uralist found  numerous  pollen-grains  of  Coniferae 


The  Seniors  of  the  Forest  287 

adhering  to  sticky  slides  which  had  been  sent  to  a 
height  of  over  five  hundred  feet  by  means  of 
kites.  Curiously  enough  more  was  found  in  the 
higher  levels  of  the  atmosphere." 

The  pollen  of  the  Coniferae  is  enabled  to  fly  thus 
adventurously  abroad  because  each  grain  is  pro- 
vided with  two  bladdery  wings,  so  that  its  outline 
suggests  one  kind  of  a  Chinese  kite  (Fig.  80). 


FIG.  80. — Winged  pollen  of  the  fir. 

This  winged  pollen  comes  out  of  little  sacs,  which 
grow  sometimes  in  pairs,  sometimes  in  clusters,  on 
the  lower  surfaces  of  shield-shaped  scales,  which 
have  been  called  "  staminal  leaves.*'  They  are 
regarded  as  foliage  leaves,  set  aside  and  altered 
over  for  new  and  higher  uses. 

Cooperation  which  brings  about  great  results  in 
the  physical  as  well  as  in  the  industrial  world 
enables  the  staminal  leaves  of  the  pine  to  make  a 
brave  show.  They  grow  in  long,  close  tufts,  each 
of  which  is  regarded  as  a  very  simple  and  primi- 
tive staminate  flower  (Fig.  81). 


288    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 


These  flowers  in  their  turn  are  massed  in  clus- 
ters, which  are  borne  near  the  tips  of  boughs  and 
twigs,  where  the  wind  can  have  its  will  with  them. 
By  latter  May  they  are  golden  and  conspicuous, 
and  their  abundant  pollen  flies  from  them  in  light 
clouds. 

The   staminal    leaf-clusters,    or   staminate  flowers, 


FIG.  8 1. — Flowers  of  the  Scotch  pine  (Pinus  syhestris). 

a,  Staminate  flower;  6,  a  single  "staminal  leat " ;  r,  pistillate  flower;  d,  upper 
surface  of  a  carpel  showing  the  two  attached  ovules  ;  *-,  lower  surface  of  a 
carpel.  (From  the  Vegetable  World.) 

of  the  hemlock  are  more  difficult  to  find,  for  they 
are  not  much  larger  than  grains  of  rice,  and  they 
grow  on  the  under  surfaces  of  the  branches. 

Those  of  the  junipers  and  red  cedars  make  their 
presence  evident  by  giving  a  yellow  tinge  to  the 
boughs  which  bear  them,  but  they  are  so  tiny  and 
so  hidden  among  the  leaves  that  one  wonders  how 
even  the  wind  is  able  to  find  them  out. 

By    time    these    humble    flowers    are    prepared    to 


The  Seniors  of  the  Forest  289 

give  their  pollen  to  the  breezes  the  pistillate 
blossoms  are  ready  to  turn  it  to  good  account. 

The  staminal  leaf  is  a  rudimentary  affair,  but  its 
affinity  is,  if  possible,  more  rudimentary  still.  In 
the  heart  of  a  freshly-opened  pea-blossom  there  is 
already  an  extremely  small,  but  perfectly  formed, 
pod.  Suppose  we  pluck  away  from  the  pea-flower 
its  calyx,  corolla,  and  stamens,  till  nothing  but 
this  tiny  pod  is  left.  Now  if  we  split  it  we  shall 
find  within  it  a  number  of  minute  peas.  If  we 
pick  off  all  these  except  two,  the  remnant,  a  naked 
and  opened  pod  with  two  peas,  will  be  equivalent 
to  the  "  carpel"  of  most  native  cone-bearers. 

The  young  cone  is  a  community  of  carpels,  each 
having  its  pair  of  attached  ovules,  and  all  arranged 
spirally  about  a  woody  axis.  The  very  young 
"  berry"  of  a  red  cedar  or  a  juniper  is  a  close 
ring  of  carpels  enclosing  a  few  ovules.  And  in 
both  these  cases  the  entire  cluster  is  regarded  as  a 
single  pistillate  flower. 

The  ovule  of  the  yew  lives  alone  and  is  a  "  pis- 
tillate flower"  all  by  itself.  It  is  partly  enveloped 
by  small  scales,  and  a  little  ring-shaped  disk  closely 
invests  its  base. 

Among  the  red  cedars,  junipers,  and  yews  some 
individuals  bear  pistillate  flowers  only,  while  others 


290    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

devote  all  their  energies  to  the  production  of 
staminal  leaves  and  pollen.  But  all  other  native 
evergreens  produce  both  sorts  of  flower  on  the 
same  tree,  and  they  may  frequently  be  seen  on 
the  self-same  branch. 

The  ovule  of  a  flower  akin  to  the  lily  or  the 
rose  generally  wears  two  coats.  But  the  ovule  of 
a  cone-bearer  has  but  a  single  coat,  and  at  one 
point  it  presents  a  naked  surface  to  the  pollen. 

Because  their  ovules  are  not  enclosed  in  pistils 
the  cone-bearers  and  their  kin  are  known  to  sys- 
tematic botany  as  "  gymnosperms  "  (naked  seeds). 
They  are  a  last  link  in  the  chain  which  connects 
the  flower-less  and  the  flowering  plants. 

Naturalists  assign  the  highest  rank  among  flower- 
less  plants  to  the  club-mosses,  and  the  selaginellas 
their  nearest  of  kin. 

Two  sorts  of  selaginella  are  cultivated  under  the 
name  of  "  lycopodium,"  and  may  be  seen  draping 
the  stages  in  greenhouses,  or  making  a  moss-like 
mat  all  over  the  floor  in  florists'  windows.  These 
plants  bear  spores  of  two  sorts  and  sizes,  which 
ripen  at  about  the  same  time,  and  fall  to  the 
ground  together  (Fig.  82).  Then  the  substance 
contained  in  each  of  the  smaller  spores  develops 
into  a  tiny  "male"  prothallus,  consisting  of  one 


The  Seniors  of  the  Forest  291 

vegetative  cell,  and  beside  it,  a  little  chamber  full 
of  spermatozoids.  And  in  the  larger  spore  mean- 
time there  is  formed  a  "  female"  prothallus,  which 
soon  grows  big  enough  to  rupture  the  spore-wall 
and  protrudes  through  the  fissure  it  has  made. 


FIG.  82. — A  larger  ("  macro")  and  two  smaller  ("  micro  ")  spores 
of  Selaginclla  martensii  (the  Lycopodium  stoloniferum  of  florists). 
All  magnified  alike  to  show  actual  comparative  size. 

In  this  protruding  part,  archegonia,  like  those  of 
the  fern-prothallus,  are  formed,  and  at  about  the 
same  time  the  spermatozoids  in  the  smaller  spore 
are  ready  to  seek  their  affinities,  and  the  spore-wall 
bursts,  setting  them  free.  They  are  provided  with 
little  cilia,  which  quiver  and  vibrate  like  the  cilia 
on  the  fern-spermatozoid,  and  by  means  of  these 
they  swim  actively  over  the  dewy-  or  rain-soaked 
ground,  till  they  find  the  larger  spore  and  in  it 
the  archegonium  they  have  been  seeking. 


292    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

So  the  prothalli  of  the  selaginella  are  male  and 
female,  and  they  spend  their  brief  lives  attached 
to  their  respective  spores,  and  almost  completely 
enclosed  by  them. 

The  gymnosperm  represents  the  next  phase  of 
plant-history.  For  the  sturdy  pine-tree,  like  the 
little  moss-like  selaginella,  has  two  prothallus 
parents,  both  tiny  and  short-lived,  The  selaginella 
prothallus  which  lives  in  the  smaller  or  '  'micro  "- 
spore  is  minute,  though  the  one  which  develops 
in  the  larger  or  "  macro  "-spore  comes  a  little  way 
out  into  the  world,  and  in  some  species  grows 
large  enough  to  be  seen  with  a  pocket-lens.  But 
neither  of  the  prothallus  parents  of  the  pine  can 
be  seen  without  the  aid  of  a  high-power  micro- 
scope, and  they  never  leave  the  spores  in  which 
their  lives  begin. 

The  larger  or  female  prothallus  is  completely 
enclosed  by  the  macrospore,  and  the  macrospore 
is  developed  inside  the  ovule,  and  stays  there  dur- 
ing its  entire  life.  This  prothallus  is  only  a  little 
mass  of  cell-tissue,  almost  colorless,  because  it 
lives  in  the  dark.  After  it  has  ''got  its  growth" 
tiny  archegonia  are  formed  in  it,  and  these  stand 
in  such  a  position  that  their  flask-mouths  open 
toward  that  spot  in  the  ovule  which  is  not 


The  Seniors  of  the  Forest  293 

covered  by  the  seed-coat.  From  three  to  five  of 
these  little  flasks  are  prepared  for  pollen  in  each 
of  the  pine-ovules. 

At  the  season  when  the  winds  are  freighted  with 
the  pollen  of  the  cone-bearers  the  scales  of  the 
pistillate  flower  draw  apart,  so  that  the  precious 
dust  can  slip  down  between  them  to  the  ovule. 
And  just  at  this  stage  of  affairs  a  tiny  drop  of 
fluid  exudes  from  the  opening  in  the  ovule's  coat. 
The  golden  grains  brought  by  the  breezes  are 
caught  and  held  in  this,  and  as  the  fluid  evap- 
orates, or  is  absorbed,  they  are  gradually  drawn 
down  to  the  ovule's  surface. 

The  ripe  pollen-grain  of  the  pine  is  not  a  mere 
bag  of  jelly,  as  is  the  pollen-grain  of  the  crocus. 
It  has  two  compartments  or  "  cells"  like  the 
smaller  spore  of  the  selaginella.  One  of  these  is 
merely  vegetative,  and  one,  a  little  later,  develops 
into  the  pollen-tube.  The  tube  put  forth  by  the 
crocus  pollen  grain  contains  one  globule  of  vitaliz- 
ing protoplasm,  the  "  generative  cell."  But  the 
perfected  pollen-tube  of  the  pine  contains  two  gen- 
erative cells. 

The  tube  penetrates  the  tissue  of  the  ovule  for 
a  very  short  distance,  and  then  there  is  a  pause, 
while  the  little  archegonia  down  below  are  coming 


294    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

to  maturity.  After  this  interval  of  rest,  the  tube 
makes  its  way  to  the  macrospore,  pierces  its  deli- 
cate wall,  and  enters  the  neck  of  an  archegonium. 
Here  it  finds  a  little  globule  of  protoplasm,  similar 
to  that  which  is  contained  by  the  archegonium  of 
a  fern.  One  of  the  generative  cells  from  the 
pollen-tube  fuses  with  this  globule,  and  after  their 
union  is  complete  creative  life  begins  to  mould 
their  combined  substance  into  a  little  cone-bearer. 

The  second  "  generative  cell"  of  the  pine-pollen 
seems  to  be  a  mere  understudy.  It  comes  down 
the  pollen-tube  into  the  ovule,  but  the  most  recent 
investigators  agree  that  it  does  not  enter  an 
archegonium,  and  that,  after  a  brief  interval  it 
melts  away,  as  it  were,  and  disappears.  It  may  be 
a  reminiscence  of  a  now  obsolete  method  of  fer- 
tilization practiced  by  the  pine's  ancestors. 

Fern,  selaginella,  pine,  and  rose  seem  to  repre- 
sent successive  stages  in  the  dwindling  of  the  pro- 
thallus.  That  of  the  fern  is  a  perfect  plant,  with 
green  leafy  surface  and  serviceable  root-hairs.  It 
comes  out  into  the  great  world,  supports  itself  in- 
dependently there,  and  reaches,  sometimes,  the 
ripe  age  of  two  years.  That  of  the  selaginella  is 
minute,  and  spends  its  brief  life  almost  encom- 
passed by  the  spore.  That  of  the  pine  is  highly 


The  Seniors  of  the  Forest  295 

microscopic,  and  never  leaves  the  spore,  but  con- 
tinues utterly  dependent  upon  the  parent-tree  so 
long  as  it  lives.  And  careful  investigation  and 
comparison  show  in  the  highest  flowering  plants 
the  last  vestiges  of  the  prothallus,  here  almost 
obliterated,  but  still  distinct  enough  to  show  the 
far-off  kinship  of  fern  and  rose. 

A  few  years  ago  naturalists  believed  that  the 
ovule  of  the  flowering  plants  was  quickened  by 
union  with  a  globule  of  protoplasm  from  the  pol- 
len-tube, while  the  female  cell  of  the  higher  flower- 
less  plant  developed  at  the  vitalizing  contact  of  a 
spermatozoid,  and  that  here  lay  the  great  difference 
between  the  patricians  and  the  plebeians  of  the 
vegetable  world. 

But  recently  Mr.  Herbert  Webber  has  studied 
the  whole  process  of  fertilization  in  a  subtropical 
gymnosperm,  the  coontie  or  arrow-root  of  southern 
Florida  (Zamia  integrifolia). 

His  investigation  has  proved  that  the  kinship 
between  the  flowering  and  the  flowerless  plants  is 
far  closer  than  has  been  hitherto  supposed.  For 
what  goes  down  through  the  pollen-tube  of  the 
coontie-blossom  is  not  a  mere  globule  of  jelly,  as 
in  the  crocus,  or  two  globules  of  jelly,  as  in  the 
pine,  but  two  peg  -  top  -  shaped  spermatozoids, 


296    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

a-quiver  with  cilia,  and  spinning  around  as  if  in- 
stinct with  conscious  life.  And  two  Japanese 
botanists  have  found  spermatozoids  in  the  pollen- 
tubes  of  two  other  cousins  of  the  pines,  the  grace- 
ful cycad  and  the  gingko-tree. 

Once  it  was  thought  that  a  great  gulf  was  fixed 
between  the  flowerless  and  the  flowering  plants. 
But  further  study  has  shown  that  this  gulf  is 
bridged,  and  that  the  two  piers  which  support  the 
bridge  are  the  Lycopodineae  (club-mosses  and  selag- 
inellas)  and  the  gymnosperms. 

After  the  pollen  of  a  cone-bearer  has  found  its 
way  to  the  ovule  the  carpels  close  over  and  pro- 
tect the  developing  seed.  Those  of  the  red  cedars 
and  junipers  become  succulent,  and  unite  so  as  to 
form  a  globe  with  the  seed  inside.  Those  of  the 
pine,  spruce,  hemlock,  fir,  and  larch  alter  still 
more.  The  ovule  of  any  of  these  trees  is  fastened 
to  a  little  protruding  disk  in  the  carpel-wall  (Fig. 
83).  After  the  ovule  has  been  quickened  this 
disk  begins  to  develop  surprisingly  on  its  own 
account.  It  expands  at  top  and  sides,  and  soon 
completely  outgrows  the  carpel  to  which  it  was 
once  but  an  humble  annex.  So  the  carpel  event- 
ually loses  its  individuality  and  becomes  two 
scales.  The  uppermost  of  these  is  the  developed 


The  Seniors  of  the  Forest 


297 


disk  which  has  the  seeds  attached  to  it,  and  hence 
is  called  the  "semeniferous,"  or  seed-bearing,  scale. 
The  outstripped  remain- 
der of  the  carpel  forms 
a  "  bract-scale,"  and  both 
become  woody  and,  in 
many  cones,  are  glued 
together  with  resin. 

The  ovule  of  the  yew 
has  no  carpel,  but  after 
the  vitalizing  touch  of 
the  pollen  upon  it  the 
ring  shaped  disk  about 
its  base  begins  to  grow, 
and  forms  a  cup  around 
the  developing  seed. 

Though  three  or  four 
of  its  little  archegonia 
may  have  been  fertilized, 

the       seed      of     a      native 

gymnosperm  contains  but 

f      .  A  11         t 

One    baby-tree.         All      the 

others     were     supplanted 


FIG.  83.-Common  silver  fir 


truding  disk  and  the  two  ovules  ;  2?, 
a  part  of  a  mature  cone  showing  the 
seed-bearing  scales  (j)  and  the  bract 


by  the  growth  of  this  one,  which  has  become  sole 
heir,  and  will  take  to  itself  all  the  nourishment  in 
the  ripe  seed.  This  inheritance  is  no  mean  one. 


298    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

It  has  been  laid  away  in  the  prothallus,  whose  cells 
are  packed  full  of  food  for  its  nursling — albumen, 
starches,  and  fats. 

And  now  the  seed  which  has  been  so  well 
guarded  and  nourished  during  its  immaturity  is  to 
be  sent  out  to  get  its  own  living.  The  red  cedars, 
junipers,  and  yews  employ  the  birds  as  sowers. 
When  the  cedar-  and  juniper-seeds  are  ripe  the  suc- 
culent globes  which  enclose  them  become  purple, 
and  show  vividly  against  the  sombre  green  of  the 
boughs.  At  the  season  when  there  is  little  pro- 
vender in  the  snow-clad  fields  these  pretty  berries 
tempt  the  birds,  which  devour  them,  and  scatter 
their  seeds  broadcast.  The  fleshy  cup  which  has 
grown  up  about  the  yew-seed  becomes  juicy  and 
soft  and  turns  bright-red.  But  though  this  cup  is 
"  pleasant  to  the  eye  and  good  for  food,"  from 
a  bird's  point  of  view,  the  seed  contained  in  it  is 
poisonous.  Instinct  warns  the  birds  of  this,  and 
after  they  have  devoured  the  juicy  cups  they  spit 
up  the  seeds,  perhaps  in  a  place  far  from  the  tree 
whence  they  were  gathered. 

The  other  cone-bearers  (with  the  exception  of 
the  "  bald  "-cypress)  send  their  offspring  away  by 
their  tried  old  messenger,  the  wind.  The  ripe 
seeds  are  winged,  and  when  they  are  ready  to 


The  Seniors  of  the  Forest  299 

travel  the  cone-scales,  which  have  hitherto  been 
pressed  together,  draw  apart,  setting  their  wards 
free.  The  scales  of  the  firs  drop  away  altogether, 
leaving  nothing  of  the  cone  but  a  woody  axis. 

The  cones  of  the  hemlocks,  pines,  and  spruces 
gradually  assume  a  pendant  position  while  they  are 
maturing,  so  that  when  their  scales  separate  the 
ripe  seeds  are  at  once  given  to  the  winds.  Thus 
the  cone-bearers,  like  good  parents,  do  their  ut- 
most "  in  protection  of  their  tender  ones." 

But  alas!  In  the  vegetable  world,  no  less  than 
in  the  worlds  of  mice  and  men,  the  best-laid 
schemes  "  gang  aft  aglee." 

For  often,  in  latter  summer,  one  may  see  a 
squirrel  perched  upon  a  pine-branch,  holding  a 
nearly-ripe  cone  between  his  fore-paws.  With 
attitudes  and  actions  like  those  of  a  little  monkey 
he  tears  away  the  scales  and  flings  them  earth- 
ward, and  meantime  he  feasts  eagerly  upon  the 
seeds  whose  stores  of  nutriment  were  prepared  and 
laid  away  with  no  foreboding  of  his  sharp  claws 
and  nibbling  teeth  thrust  impertinently  between 
Nature's  plans  and  their  fulfilment. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

DOGBANE   AND   MILKWEED 

"They  lay  wait  as  he  that  setteth  snares." 

— Jeremiah  v.  26. 

THE  story  of  the  trap-setting  and  insect-eating 
plants  is  a  more  than  twice-told  tale.  The  pitcher- 
plant,  which  beguiles  the  hapless  fly  to  his  drown- 
ing in  its  vase-shaped  leaves,  baited  on  the  outside 
with  nectar-bearing  glands,  and  filled  with  water; 
the  Venus's  fly-trap,  which  shuts  up  on  him  and 
crushes  him;  the  sundew  (Drosera),  which  chokes 
him  in  a  sticky  secretion,  are  all  known,  at  least 
by  pictures  and  descriptions,  to  the  tyro  in  botanic 
study.  And  we  have  learned  that  they  all  have 
good  and  sufficient  reasons  for  thus  dealing  with 
the  hapless  flies.  For,  as  Darwin  has  pointed  out, 
these  plants  usually  grow  rooted  in  moss,  or  in 
very  sandy  and  barren  soil.  Insect-eating  leaves 
are  probably  a  device  to  supply  the  plant  with 
nitrogen  by  means  of  the  foliage,  in  circumstances 

where  the  roots  prove  powerless   for  the  purpose. 

300 


FIG.  84. — Spreading  dogbane  (Apocynutn  androscemifolium). 

301 


Dogbane  and  Milkweed  303 

The  insect  slaughter  which  they  carry  on  has 
the  same  excuse  -as  the  animal  slaughter  of  the 
abattoir.  It  is  killing  for  food,  and  the  insects 
which  these  plants  catch  are  honestly  eaten  and 
digested.  But  in  the  infinite  analogy  of  the  vege- 
table world  we  find  what  seems  a  curious  parallel 
to  killing  for  sport.  There  are  a  few  native  flowers 
which  entrap  insects  simply  and  solely,  it  appears, 
for  the  deed's  own  sake.  The  prisoners  serve  no 
apparent  use  in  the  plant's  economy,  nor  do  their 
poor  little  corpses  nourish  the  plant's  life.  A 
botanist  who  let  his  imagination  run  away  with 
him  might  accuse  the  guileless-looking  flowers  of 
that  savage  joy  in  another  creature's  pain  which 
drew  our  forefathers  in  crowds  to  the  badger-draw- 
ings and  bear-baitings  of  bygone  times. 

One  of  these  flower  tormentors  is  the  spreading 
dogbane  (Apocynum  androsaemifolium)  (Fig.  84), 
which  is  common  all  summer,  along  shady  road- 
sides and  around  the  borders  of  thickets,  in  the 
Northern  and  Eastern  states.  The  plant  is  about 
three  feet  high,  erect  and  branching.  The  flowers 
are  nearly  as  large  as  single  blossoms  of  the  lily 
of  the  valley,  and  when  closely  examined  are  seen 
to  be  very  beautiful. 

The  corolla  is  bell-shaped,   and  cleft   at   the  edge 


304    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

into  five  slender  points.  Its  deep  pink-veining 
suggests  nectar,  and  the  insect  visitor  is  not  dis- 
appointed, for  at  its  base  are  five  nectar-bearing 
glands.  These  stand  in  a  ring  around  the  pistil, 
and  in  a  larger  circle,  outside  the  ring  of  honey- 
glands,  are  the  five  stamens.  The  anthers  stand 
erect,  and  in  shape  are  like  arrow-  or  spear-heads 
(Fig.  85).  Corresponding  to  the  two  points  at 
the  base  of  a  spear-head  there  are,  at  the  base 
of  each  anther,  two  little  hard  horns,  and  the 
stamens  ring  so  closely  about  the  pistil  that  horn 
is  beside  horn  all  around  the  circle. 

On  the  inside  of  the  corolla,  near  its  base,  are 
five  triangular  callosities,  with  their  points  up. 
These  are  placed  in  such  a  way  as  to  alternate, 
with  the  stamens,  and  stand  a  little  below  them, 
so  that  the  two  hard  points  at  the  bases  of  two 
neighboring  anthers,  and  the  hard  tip  of  the  cal- 
losity— three  little  horns — come  together  like  the 
teeth  of  a  trap.  There  are  no  fewer  than  five 
places  inside  the  flower's  cup  where  these  traps 
are  set,  and  inside  the  circle  of  traps  are  the 
glands  which  contain  nectar  (Fig.  85). 

The  blossom  is  visited  by  bees  and  flies,  but  its 
favorite  guests,  says  Muller,  are  butterflies.  It 
cements  its  pollen  to  their  tongues,  and  thus  com- 


Dogbane  and  Milkweed 


305 


FIG.  85. — Trap  of  the  spreading  dogbane. 

a.  the  flower  with  its  calyx  and  corolla  removed,  showing  the  stamens  and 
honey-glands  ;  £,  the  opened  corolla,  showing  the  callosities ;  c,  a  trap  seen 
from  the  side ;  d,  the  circle  of  traps,  seen  from  above. 


306    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

pels  them  to  carry  it  away  with  them  to  other 
dogbane  flowers, 

The  fly-caller  seems  unable  to  sip  the  nectar 
except  by  running  his  proboscis  in  between  the 
long  anthers,  and  just  above  the  horny  excres- 
cences on  the  corolla.  When  he  attempts  to  with- 
draw, after  drinking  his  fill,  the  three  points  lock 
together,  like  the  jaws  of  a  trap,  holding  the  tip 
of  his  proboscis  in  durance  vile.  If  the  winged 
captive  is  big  and  strong,  he  gets  free  with  a 
long  and  a  vigorous  pull.  But  small  flies  are 
often  held  prisoners  till  they  die,  probably  from 
starvation.  Sometimes  one  may  see  three  or  four 
of  these  hapless  victims  on  one  full-blooming  plant 
of  spreading  dogbane. 

Among  the  prisoners  one  may  often  see  a  little 
summer-fly  of  dudish  aspect,  with  body  ringed 
with  alternate  bands  of  bronze  and  gold  and  wings 
of  gauze  shot  with  opaline  colors.  To  what  end 
is  this  bright  little  fellow  sacrificed  ?  Held  as  he 
is  by  the  tip  of  his  proboscis,  his  body  does  not 
come  into  contact  with  the  plant,  and  hence  it  can- 
not be  digested  by  the  vegetable  juices,  as  are  the 
corpses  of  the  sundew's  victims.  The  only  possi- 
ble justification  the  dogbane  can  furnish  for  his 
taking  off  is  that  he  has  trespassed  upon  the 


FIG.  86. — Common  milkweed  (Asclepias  cormiti], 
307 


Dogbane  and  Milkweed  309 

butterfly's  preserves.  For  this  intrusion  he  is 
dealt  with  as  severely  as  poachers  were  under  the 
forest-laws  of  feudal  England. 

There  is  another  variety  of  dogbane,  the  Indian- 
hemp,  or  Apocynum  cannabinum,  which  bears 
smaller  blossoms  than  the  androsaemifolium,  blooms 
somewhat  later,  and  is  more  widely  distributed 
over  the  country.  This  flower  has  no  callosities 
in  its  corolla,  sets  no  scares  for  insect  victims,  and 
is  apparently  quite  innocent  of  the  crimes  which 
one  is  inclined  to  lay  to  the  charge  of  its  first 
cousin. 

The  common  milkweed  (Asclepias  cornuti)  (Fig. 
86)  also  imprisons  insects,  which  sometimes  die  in 
captivity,  and  do  no  apparent  good  to  the  plant 
by  their  deaths.  They  have,  however,  invited  mis- 
fortune, for  though  the  milkweed  is  rich  in  honey 
and  is  visited  by  a  large  and  miscellaneous  com- 
pany, it  can  be  fertilized,  apparently  only  by  bees, 
and  perhaps  by  a  few  large  flies. 

The  milkweed  is  a  peculiarly  -  constructed  and 
very  highly-organized  flower.  The  sepals  and  the 
petals,  each  five  in  number,  fold  back  as  soon  as 
the  flower  opens  and  press  closely  against  the 
flower-stalk  (Fig,  87,  a).  Inside  them,  standing 
upright  in  a  ring,  are  five  honey-jars  or  nectaries 


310    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

of  peculiar  form  (Fig.  8;).  Each  nectary  is 
hooded,  and  inside  each  is  an  incurved  horn  (Fig. 
87,  b).  Within  the  circle  of  honey-jars  are  the 
five  stamens,  which  are  fixed  to  the  base  of  the 
corolla,  and  stand  in  contact  with  each  other,  sur- 


FIG.  87.— Trap  of  the  milkweed 

a,  single  blossom  seen  from  the  side,  showing"  the  corolla  turned  backward  and 
the  ring  of  upright  nectaries ;  £,  single  blossom  seen  from  above ;  c,  the 
stamen  ring,  showing  one  of  the  openings  between  the  stamens,  and  the  disk  at 
its  upper  end;  d,  a  freshly  removed  disk,  with  its  attached  pollen  masses; 
e  and  _/",  positions  taken  by  the  drying  pollen  masses  as  they  are  carried 
through  the  air  by  insects. 

rounding  and  enclosing  the  pistil  (Fig.  87,  c).  On 
top  of  the  ring  of  stamens  is  a  large  five-sided 
disk,  which  keeps  the  pollen  from  being  wet  with 
rain  or  dew.  The  whole  stamen  system  is  like  a 
little  tub  or  firkin,  standing  in  the  midst  of  the 


Dogbane  and  Milkweed  311 

flower,  upside  down.  Inside  this  firkin  are  two 
green  pistils,  which  may  become  two  green  pods. 
Half  the  pollen  of  each  anther  is  collected  into  a 
nine-pin-shaped  mass,  which  is  fastened  to  a  sim- 
ilar mass  formed  by  half  the  pollen  of  the  next 
anther.  Thus  two  connected  pollen-masses  belong 
to  two  separate  stamens. 

They  are  united  by  a  tiny  black  disk,  which  is 
seen,  on  closer  examination  to  be  thin,  hard,  and 
horny  (Fig.  87,  d}.  "  Its  sides  are  bent  forward 
for  its  whole  length,"  says  Muller,  "so  that  their 
edges  lie  close  together,  and  in  the  middle  of  its 
lower  border  is  a  wedge-shaped  notch."  The  disk 
is  set  just  above  an  opening  between  the  stamens 
which  runs  "clear  through"  to  the  pistils  inside 
the  firkin.  This  opening  is  a  mere  slit  at  its 
widest  part,  but  it  is  distinctly  narrower  at  its 
upper  end.  The  fly  or  bee  stands  on  the  outside 
of  the  firkin,  and  slips  and  slides  on  the  smooth 
surface  till  one  of  her  feet  enters  the  lower  and 
wider  end  of  one  of  the  slits. 

The  winged  captive  draws  her  leg  upward  in  the 
effort  to  escape,  and  her  foot  catches  in  the  notch 
on  the  lower  side  of  the  little  black  disk.  Then, 
determined  to  be  free,  she  pulls  out,  if  she  is 
strong  enough,  the  whole  affair,  disk  and  attached 


312    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

pollen-masses.  A  bee  will  gather  several  of  these 
at  once,  and  I  have  seen  one  buzzing  away  from 
a  head  of  milkweed  loaded  with  no  fewer  than 
nine.  Thus  encumbered  she  was  for  a  moment 
held  prisoner  by  the  flower,  unable  to  pull  herself 
loose.  Following  the  ancient  custom  of  the  bees, 
she  carried  the  pollen-masses  at  once  to  another 
milkweed  plant,  and  perched  upon  one  of  its 
flowers,  in  the  same  position  in  which  she  had 
stood  when  visiting  the  first.  This  brought  some 
of  the  pollen-masses  on  her  feet  exactly  opposite 
the  slits  running  through  the  stamen-ring  to  the 
pistil. 

The  pollen-masses,  when  they  are  first  extracted, 
stand  wide  apart.  But  as  the  insect  flies  through 
the  air  with  them  they  dry  somewhat,  and  in  dry- 
ing they  droop  so  close  together  that  they  can  both 
be  introduced  into  the  lower  and  wider  part  of 
the  stamen-slit  of  another  flower  (Figs.  87,  e  and/). 
When  the  insect  literally  tears  itself  away  from 
this  second  flower  it  snaps  the  cords  which  binds 
the  pollen-masses  to  the  little  black  disk.  The 
disk  still  clings  to  the  insect's  foot  as  a  souvenir  of 
its  visit  to  the  first  milkweed  blossom,  but  the 
pollen-masses  are  left  behind  pressed  close  to  the 
little  green  pistils  of  milkweed  blossom  number  two. 


Dogbane  and  Milkweed  3 15 

The  bee  seems  the  favorite  guest  of  the  milk- 
weed. The  pollen-masses  come  out  at  once  to  her 
tread,  and  are  carried  directly  to  the  pistil  of 
another  flower. 

Wasps  visit  the  milkweed  for  its  honey,  but  I 
have  never  seen  them  withdraw  the  pollen-masses. 
Flies  seldom  do,  though  the  flower  is  visited  by 
flies  of  many  species.  Indeed,  it  is  a  general 
favorite,  standing  in  the  midst  of  a  winged  throng 
till  dark,  for  twilight  brings  to  it  a  number  of 
small,  sad-colored  moths  with  very  long  proboscides. 

But  not  all  these  visitors  are  permitted  to  go  in 
peace.  A  small  fly  with  his  legs  .  stuck  to  the 
black  disks  is  frequently  unable  to  pull  himself 
loose  after  he  has  drunk  his  fill. 

In  a  bunch  of  twenty-five  blossoms  I  have 
counted  five  flies  thus  held  in  captivity — three 
dead  and  two  dying — and  the  same  bunch  had 

captured   a   long-legged,  lace-winged   caperer,  whose 

i 

struggles  to  free  himself  were  as  desperate  as  futile. 
On  any  large  bunch  of  these  flowers  one  can  see 
mementoes  of  past  tribulations.  Here  and  there 
a  blossom  still  holds  a  little  black  leg,  the  price 
of  the  liberty  of  some  insect  who  has  gone  off 
free,  but  a  cripple. 

A    flower    so    highly    organized    as    the    milkweed 


314    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

seldom  receives  and  nourishes  all  comers.  In  one 
peculiarity  of  structure  the  milkweeds  are  like  the 
orchids,  that  royal  family  of  plants,  for  many  or- 
chids also  send  their  pollen  abroad  massed  into 
two  clusters,  which  are  united  by  a  disk.  But  each 
orchid  has  its  own  very  select  and  small  circle  of 
guests,  and  some  among  them  endeavor  to  please 
one  butterfly  or  moth  friend,  him  and  him  alone. 
They  are,  in  evolutionary  language,  "  highly  spe- 
cialized." 

On  the  other  hand,  a  flower  which  keeps  open 
house  to  all  comers  is  generally  primitive  in  color 
and  structure.  Such  blossoms  are  apt  to  be  yel- 
low or  white,  with  flat,  open  corollas,  and  without 
spurs,  honey-jars,  or  covering  to  protect  the  pollen. 
So  the  milkweed  is  something  of  a  problem  to  the 
evolutionary  botanist. 

And  there  is  another  puzzle  for  him  in  the  in- 
adequacy of  Nature's  very  elaborate  contrivances 
to  ensure  the  fertilization  of  the  milkweed.  Flowers 
far  simpler  in  structure  and  far  less  attractive  to 
insects  bring  a  larger  proportionate  number  of  fruits 
to  perfection. 

The  great  blossom- clusters  which  crown  the  milk- 
weed in  July  and  August  are  made  up  of  from 
twenty-five  to  fifty  flowers.  But  in  September  the 


Dogbane  and  Milkweed 


same  stalk  will  support  only  from  two  to  six  seed- 
pods,  and  a  pair  of  pods  represents  a  single  flower. 

So  most  of  the  flowers  die  leaving  no  memorial 
behind  them,  and  the  flies  which  they  have  vic- 
timized are  avenged. 

In  the  language  of  some  elegiac  poetry  we 
pause  to  breathe  a  sigh  over  the  fate  of  the  hap- 
less flies  which,  like  Haman  of  old,  come  to  a 
feast  and  thereat  are  captured  and  slain. 

However,  these  unfortunates  are  but  a  small  pro- 
portion of  the  milk- 
weed's fly  visitors. 
The  great  majority 
make  off,  after  taking 
their  fill  of  nectar, 
without  carrying  away 
any  portion  of  the 
pollen  which  the  flower 
is  endeavoring  to  send 
to  its  neighbors.  This 
waste  of  nectar  is 
bad  for  the  milkweed, 
which  would  be  bet- 
ter off  with  fewer  fly 
visitors.  So  the  flower 
would  profit  by  any  device  which  would  dis- 


FIG.  88. — A  dogbane  flower  and 
its  captive. 


)\6    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

courage  these  many  flies,  without  deterring  those 
useful  and  desired  visitors,  the  bees.  Will  flies 
learn  after  a  while  to  shun  the  milkweed's  dan- 
gerous sweets,  so  that  they  may  all  be  left  for 
worthier  and  more  welcome  guests?  And  how 
many  generations  will  it  take  this  proverbially 
foolish  insect  to  lay  the  lesson  to  heart?  (Fig.  88). 


CHAPTER   XIV 
THISTLES   AND   NETTLES 

"And  the  thorns  which  make  us  think 
Of  the  thornless  river  brink 
Where  the  ransomed  tread." 

— Mrs.  Browning. 

THE  Book  of  Genesis  teaches  that  thorns  and 
thistles  grew  out  of  the  cursed  ground,  in  punish- 
ment for  our  first  parents'  sin.  Modern  science, 
harmonizing  with  ancient  theology,  holds  that  this- 
tles and  nettles,  as  we  know  them  to-day,  are 
younger  children  in  the  great  family  of  plants. 
They  are  " highly  specialized." 

The  larger  thistles  are  suited  in  color  and  struc- 
ture to  the  tastes  and  needs  of  the  bumble-bees, 
which  are  among  the  latest  born  of  insects.  The 
nettles  employ  the  wind  as  their  pollen-carrier,  and 
are  wondrously  adapted  to  make  the  best  use  of 
this  capricious  servant,  which  outdoes  the  most  ex- 
acting of  trades  unions  in  its  determination  to 
"lay  off"  when  it  pleases  and  to  regulate  its  own 

holidays  and   the   length   of  its  working-day.     And 

317 


318    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 


K  * 


FlG.  89. — Nettle  and  Canada  thistle  (Urtica  dioica  and  Cnicus  arvensis). 


Thistles  and  Nettles  3 1 9 

both  thistles  and  nettles  are  guarded,  with  Nature's 
utmost  care,  against  pollen-thieves  and  grazing  foes. 

Both  have  juicy  stalks,  and  leaves  toothsome  to 
vegetarian  rovers.  Both  grow  in  uncultivated  fields, 
along  roadsides,  and  in  waste  open  spots  where 
grass  is  scarce,  and  where  hungry  cows  and  holi- 
day-keeping horses  are  wont  to  wander,  seeking 
what  they  may  devour. 

The  thistle  is  saved  from  those  who  would  eat 
it  up  by  a  bristling  armor  of  prickles,  dismaying 
to  all  animals  except  the  donkey.  That  prover- 
bially determined  quadruped  will  not  be  turned 
from  his  gastronomic  purpose  by  little  things  like 
these.  Indeed,  he  seems  to  relish  them  as  a  pun- 
gent addition,  giving  zest  to  his  repast,  much  as 
cayenne  pepper  and  Chili  sauce  improve  the  din- 
ner of  the  human  gourmet.  But  to  most  animals 
the  prickles  of  the  thistle  and  the  stings  of  the 
nettle  are  hurtful  and  repellent.  "  Weeds  or 
shrubs  with  juicy,  tender  leaves,*'  says  Grant  Allen, 
"are  very  apt  to  be  eaten  down  by  rabbits,  cows, 
and  other  wandering  herbivores.  But  if  any  in- 
dividuals among  such  plants  develop  any  peculiar- 
ities which  prevent  animals  from  browsing  upon 
them,  then  those  particular  plants  will  be  spared, 
while  their  neighbors  are  eaten.  They  will  live 


320    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

to  produce  offspring  inheriting  the  habits  of  their 
parents,  and  of  these  offspring  the  more  tender 
and  defenceless  will  be  eaten,  while  the  thorniest, 
stringiest,  or  bitterest  individuals  will  be  spared, 
to  produce  offspring  thorny,  stringy,  and  bitter, 
like  themselves.  So,  in  the  course  of  generations, 
Nature  brings  into  being  a  number  of  plant-fam- 
ilies, each  protected  from  browsing  animals  by 
some  well-marked  peculiarity." 

The  common  mullein,  a  plant  of  the  roadsides 
and  pastures,  is  rendered  unappetizing  by  the  down 
which  covers  its  leaves,  and  which,  it  seems,  is 
doubly  useful.  For  "hairs,"  says  Vines,  "  often 
serve  to  diminish  transpiration  and  radiation,  and 
to  screen  chlorophyll  from  too  intense  light,  and 
a  clothing  of  hairs  is  characteristic  of  plants  which 
habitually  grow  in  dry  soils  and  in  sunny  situa- 
tions." But  in  this  case  the  fuzz  which  clothes 
the  mullein-leaves  makes  them  as  "  dry  eating"  as 
so  much  flannel. 

The  great  cool  leaves  of  the  burdock  are  bitter 
and  sour  exceedingly  (Fig.  90).  So  efficient  are 
these  devices  of  Nature  for  the  protection  of  this- 
tles, mullein,  and  burdock,  that  they  are  generally 
spared,  even  in  close-cropped  pastures.  The  dan- 
delion and  wild  lettuce-leaves  contain  a  bitter  juice. 


FIG.  90. — Burdock  (Arctinm  Lappa). 
321 


Thistles  and  Nettles  323 

In  the  Hawthorne,  the  locust,  and  the  wild  orange- 
tree  some  of  the  lower  branches  develop  into  sharp 
spines  which  prick  the  noses  of  would-be  assailants. 

In  the  bramble  those  hairs  which  clothe  the  stem 
of  most  plants  have  thickened  into  pointed  prickles. 
In  the  holly  the  angles  of  the  leaves  have  grown 
into  needle-like  points,  which  deter  animals  from 
browsing  upon  them,  and  it  is  noticeable  that  when 
the  holly  develops  into  a  tree  its  foliage,  carried 
up  into  comparative  safety,  becomes  almost  smooth. 

On  the  Irish  gorse,  a  native  of  commons  where 
cattle  wander,  and  of  mountain-slopes  where  half- 
starved  sheep  run  wild,  all  the  leaves  are  thorns. 
The  green  color  of  these  thorns  shows  that  they 
contain  chlorophyll,  and  they  fulfill  the  office  of 
the  foliage,  which  they  have  entirely  supplanted. 
The  whole  gorse-bush,  from  its  root  to  its  crown 
of  honey-sweet  golden  flowers,  is  one  bristling  de- 
fiance. 

The  teasel  (Fig.  91)  is  evolving  its  armor,  which 
is  already  disconcerting  to  a  browsing  vegetarian, 
and  which  may  become  positively  deterrent  in  times 
to  come.  Its  leaves  are  supported  by  strong,  mid- 
ribs, each  of  which  bristles  all  down  its  length,  with 
saw-teeth.  The  side-veins  are  studded  with  smaller 
teeth,  and,  while  the  lower  sides  of  the  leaves  are 


324    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 


FIG.  92. — Common  wild  teasel  (Dipsacus  sylvestris). 


Thistles  and  Nettles  325 

thus  effectually  protected,  their  upper  sides  are  not 
always  left  unguarded.  About  one  teasel  in  three 
has  its  upper  leaf-surfaces  dotted  over  with  prickles, 
not  very  sharp  to  the  fingers,  but  probably  well 
able  to  hurt  the  lips  and  tongue  of  a  browsing 
animal,  and  these  prickles,  by  the  bye,  are  interest- 
ing to  the  botanist,  because  they  grow  out  of  the 
leaf-surface,  and  not,  after  the  usual  habit  of  prick- 
les, from  the  veins.  A  hungry  rabbit,  feeding 
among  the  teasels,  would  be  likely  to  satisfy  his 
appetite  with  those  leaves  having  their  upper  sur- 
faces soft  and  smooth,  and  to  spare  the  more 
bristly  individuals.  So  these  well-guarded  plants 
survive  to  set  their  seed,  and  become  progenitors 
of  young  plants,  which  will  inherit  the  parental 
habit  of  bearing  leaves  with  prickles  on  both  sur- 
faces. 

The  botanist  draws  a  distinction  between  a  prickle 
and  a  thorn.  A  prickle  can  be  removed  with  ease 
from  the  stem  or  leaf  on  which  it  grows.  It  is 
not  incorporated  with  the  wood,  but  merely,  and 
often  very  lightly,  attached  to  the  bark  or  to  the 
surface  or  edge  of  the  leaf. 

A  thorn  is,  on  the  contrary,  a  fixture.  The 
woody  fibre  of  the  plant  runs  up  into  it,  and  it 
cannot  be  detached  without  considerable  difficulty. 


326    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

The  gorse  (Fig.  92),  the  hawthorne,  and  the 
orange-tree  are  guarded  by  thorns  indeed.  But 
the  so-called  "thorns"  which  mar  our  delight  in 
the  queen  of  flowers  are  in  reality  prickles,  and 
so  are  the  natural  defences  of  the  blackberry  and 
the  thistle. 

Further  south,  where  life  teems,  under  a  semi- 
tropic  sun,  and  the  struggle  for  existence  is  keen 
in  proportion  to  the  number  of  the  organisms  en- 
gaged in  it,  many  plants  are  provided  with  defen- 
sive and  even  offensive  weapons,  which  make  them 
formidable  to  all  who  venture  too  near.  The  cac- 
tus, for  instance,  is  a  succulent  plant,  growing  on 
sandy  plains,  glaring  rocks,  or  shining  beaches, 
where  such  juicy  stalks  would  be  peculiarly  grate- 
ful to  parched  throats;  and  it  is  dotted  all  over  its 
surface  with  dense  clusters  of  small  but  very  pen- 
etrating and  poisonous  prickles.  The  pineapple, 
another  refreshing  thing  native  to  thirsty  lands,  has 
foliage  like  the  cheval-de-frieze  of  mediaeval  war- 
fare. The  fruit  "  sits,'  '  as  its  southern  cultivators 
might  say,  in  the  midst  of  a  ring  of  erect  sword- 
shaped  leaves,  every  one  of  which  is  bordered,  for 
its  entire  length,  along  both  edges,  with  sharp 
thorns.  The  pineapple  gatherers  are  obliged  to 
work  in  leathern  boots  reaching  to  their  hips,  and 


FIG   92.— Irish  gorse,  furze,  or  whin 
(Ulex  Europceus). 

327 


Thistles  and  Nettles  329 

without  this  defence  the  toothed  leaves  would  rend 
clothing  to  ribbons,  and  cruelly  tear  the  flesh  be- 
neath. In  the  saw-palmetto  of  the  Florida  "  flat- 
woods,"  every  leaf-stem  is  protected  on  both  sides 
with  curving  points  like  the  teeth  of  a  saw. 

The  stings  of  our  nettles  are  decidedly  unpleas- 
ant, but  they  are  not  to  be  compared  for  a  mo- 
ment to  the  sufferings  which  can  be  inflicted  by 
some  tropical  species.  Listen,  for  instance,  to  De 
La  Tour's  experiences  with  an  East  Indian  nettle. 
"  One  of  the  leaves,"  he  says,  "  slightly  touched 
my  hand.  At  the  time  I  experienced  a  slight 
pricking.  The  pain  increased.  In  an  hour  it  had 
become  intolerable,  as  if  some  one  was  rubbing  my 
hand  with  a  red-hot  iron.  The  pain  spread  rapidly 
along  my  arm  as  far  as  the  armpit.  I  did  not 
finally  lose  the  pain  for  nine  days." 

Even  our  comparatively  innocent  nettle  has  one 
of  the  most  highly  developed  of  all  the  devices  by 
which  familiar  plants  guard  themselves  against  the 
attacks  of  animals.  Its  sting  is  a  tiny  hollow  cone, 
with  the  point  upward.  At  the  base  of  this  are 
a  number  of  cells  filled  with  an  irritating  fluid  con- 
taining formic  acid,  the  same  poison  which  gives 
virulence  to  the  bites  of  the  ant  and  the  spider. 
And  at  the  tip  of  the  cone  is  a  small  round  disk 


330    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

set  on  slantwise.  When  the  sharp  point  of  the 
cone  is  touched,  however  gently,  it  pierces  the 
skin.  Then  the  disk  breaks  off,  and  the  poison 
which  is  in  the  cells  at  the  base  of  the  sting  is 
pressed  up  through  the  hollow  cone  and  into  the 
wound.  If  a  browsing  cow  thrusts  her  tender  nos- 
trils into  a  nettle-clump  the  points  pierce  her  skin, 
the  poison  enters  her  veins,  and  she  receives  a 
sharp  warning  to  let  nettles  alone  in  future. 

We  have  several  varieties  of  nettle,  all  immi- 
grants from  the  old  world.  Their  flowers  are  m,od- 
est  little  green  affairs,  so  inconspicuous  that  most 
people  do  not  believe  nettles  ever  bloom  at  all. 
These  tiny  blossoms  are  borne  on  short  branched 
spikes,  which  grow  out  almost  at  right  angles  to 
the  leaf-stalks,  and  are  often  half  hidden  by  the 
leaves.  Each  spike  is  made  up  of  separate  green 
blossoms,  with  four  tiny  flower-leaves  apiece. 

Some  of  the  wee  flowers  bear  stamens  only, 
some  bear  pistils  only,  and,  as  a  rule,  both  sorts  of 
flower  grow  on  one  plant,  though  not  unfrequently 
we  come  across  a  nettle  whose  blossoms  are  all 
of  one  kind.  The  stamen-heads  explode  when 
the  bud  expands,  scattering  the  pollen,  which  is 
borne  from  flower  to  flower,  or  from  plant  to  plant, 
by  the  wind.  As  the  nettles  have  hence  no  need 


Thistles  and  Nettles 


33' 


to  attract  insects,  the  little  blossoms  have  no  petals 
whatever,   only  four  small  greenish  sepals. 

The  florets  which  bear  stamens  only  have  in 
their  midst  a  little  green  affair  which  is  the  remi- 
niscence of  a  pistil.  But  the  pistil  now  in  use  has 
a  whole  flower  to  itself,  and  is  surrounded  by  two 
pairs  of  sepals  (Fig.  93),  the  outer  couple  small 


FIG.  93. — Single  blossoms  of  the  nettle. 

«,  Staminate  flower  just  expanding  ;  b,  fully  opened  staminate  flower  ; 
c,  pistillate  flower. 

and  spreading,  the  inner  broader  and  upright.  At 
the  tip  of  the  pistil  there  is  a  scattered  tuft  of 
hairs,  to  catch  any  chance  pollen  blowing  by. 

The  nettle  is  connected  with  much  wonder-lore, 
folk-lore,  and  tradition.  Moreover,  the  family  in 
times  gone  by  has  been  not  only  famous,  but  use- 
ful. Its  name  is  derived  from  the  passive  partici- 
ple of  a  verb  common  to  most  Indo-European  Ian- 


332    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

guages  which  means  "  to  sew."  Closely  allied 
words  are  "needle,"  "  net,"  and  "  knit."  Nettle 
would  seem  to  mean  "  that  with  which  we  sew,"  and 
indicates  that  this  plant  supplied  the  thread  used 
in  former  times  by  the  German  and  Scandinavian 
nations.  "We  know  this  to  have  been  a  fact," 
says  Moncure  D.  Conway,  "  in  the  Scotland  of  the 
last  century.  Scotch  cloth  is  only  the  housewifery 
of  the  nettle;  and  a  fabric  made  frond  the  fibres 
of  the  plant  was  also  used  till  a  recent  period  in 
Friesland."  Flax  and  hemp  bear  southern  names, 
and  when  they  were  brought  into  the  north  of 
Europe  the  nettle's  career  of  usefulness  was  ended. 
Like  handicraftsmen  on  the  introduction  of  ma- 
chinery, it  was  thrown  out  of  honorable  employ- 
ment. Then  it  became  a  vagabond  and  took  to 
roadsides  and  wastes.  Nettles  are  said  to  have 
been  introduced  into  England  by  Roman  soldiers 
who  sowed  the  seed  in  Kent  for  their  own  use 
11  to  rubbe  and  chafe  their  limbs  when  through  ex- 
treme cold  they  should  be  stifle  and  benumbed," 
having  been  told  that  the  climate  of  Britain  was 
so  cold  that  it  was  not  to  be  endured  without 
some  friction  to  warm  their  blood. 

We    are    all    familiar    with    the    oft-quoted    lines: 
"Tender-handed   stroke   a  nettle    and   it  stings  you 


Thistles  and  Nettles  333 

for  your  pains,"  etc.  They  were  written  by  Aaron 
Hill  on  a  window  in  Scotland.  Their  thought  is 
more  tersely  expressed  in  the  old  Devonshire  say- 
ing: "He  that  handles  a  nettle  tenderly  is  soonest 
stung,"  meaning  that  politeness  is  wasted  on  some 
people.  For  the  physical  sting  of  the  vegetable 
nettle  the  dock-leaf  is  a  remedy,  whence  the  old 
adage,  "  Nettle  out,  dock  in,  dock  remove  the  net- 
tle sting."  In  old-folk  medicine  nettle-tea  was  a 
remedy  for  nettle-rash,  a  kind  of  foreshadowing  of 
the  coming  doctrine  that  "  similia  similibus  curan- 
tur."  Carried  about  on  the  person,  the  nettle  was 
supposed  to  drive  away  fear,  and  on  this  account 
it  was  frequently  worn  in  time  of  danger.  "  In 
the  Tyrol,  during  a  thunder-storm,"  says  Thistle- 
ton  Dyer,  "  the  mountaineers  throw  nettles  on  the 
fire  to  protect  themselves  from  lightning,  and  the 
same  safeguard  is  practised  in  Italy."  Well  might 
this  be  a  potent  weed,  for  it  is  own  cousin  to  the 
famous  and  fatal  upas  tree  of  Eastern  story. 

The  thistle,  companion  of  the  nettle  in  vaga- 
bondage and  in  public  execration  (Fig.  94),  is  like- 
wise deserving  of  a  better  fate  and  of  a  higher 
place  in  popular  estimation.  For  it  has  been  re- 
nowned in  legend  and  wonder-lore,  and  has  more- 
over played  no  mean  part  in  authentic  history. 


334    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

The  old  world  knew  it  as  a  potent  herb  in 
charm-working  and  in  folk-medicine.  It  was  famed 
in  the  heraldry  of  the  Middle  Ages.  And  modern 
science  recognizes  it  as  one  of  the  most  highly  or- 
ganized of  wild  flowers,  wondrously  fitted  to  fight 
its  own  battles  and  to  make  friends  for  itself  in 
the  insect  world. 

Long,  long  ago  the  thistle  was  sacred  to  Thor, 
the  Norse  god  of  war  and  thunder.  It  must  be 
gathered  in  silence,  and  its  blossom  was  supposed 
to  be  colored  by  the  lightning  from  which  it  de- 
fended. In  English  folk-medicine  the  weed  con- 
tinues to  play  a  creditable  part. 

The  blessed  thistle  is  so  called  because  it  was 
an  antidote  to  venom.  The  melancholy  thistle,  a 
recently  arrived  immigrant  from  the  Old  World, 
was  a  sure  cure  for  that  vague  but  distressful  mal- 
ady, "  the  blues.'*  In  rural  England  the  thistle 
was — perhaps  it  still  is — used  in  love  divination. 
"  When  anxious  to  ascertain  who  loved  her  most," 
says  Thistleton  Dyer,  "  a  young  woman  would  take 
three  or  four  heads  of  thistles,  cut  off  their  points, 
and  assign  to  each  thistle  the  name  of  an  admirer, 
laying  them  under  her  pillow.  On  the  following 
morning  the  thistle  which  has  put  forth  a  fresh 
sprout  will  denote  the  man  who  loves  her  most. 


FIG.  94.— Common  thistle  (Cnicus  lanceolatus}. 
335 


Thistles  and  Nettles  337 

As  the  geese  once  saved  Rome,  so  the  thistle 
saved  Great  Britain,  by  causing  a  midnight  alarm 
and  scaring  off  a  midnight  foe.  A  thousand  years 
ago  the  inhabitants  of  England  and  Scotland  were 
much  harassed  by  the  Danes,  who  sailed  far  up 
the  rivers  in  flat-bottomed  boats,  attacked  the  vil- 
lages, destroyed  the  crops,  seized  the  movables, 
drove  off  the  cattle,  and  were  back  in  their  boats 
and  away  before  the  astonished  British  could  col- 
lect their  thoughts  and  their  forces,  and  punish  the 
marauders  as  they  deserved.  But  sea-robbers  as 
the  Danes  were,  they  had  a  code  of  honor  which 
forbade  them  to  attack  a  sleeping  foe.  On  one 
occasion,  however,  they  were  false  to  this  tradition, 
and  landed  on  the  shores  of  a  Scottish  river  in 
moonlight  and  silence,  intending  to  surprise  a  sleep- 
ing village.  But  as  they  crept  stealthily  upon  this 
evil  errand  one  of  them  trod,  with  naked  foot,  upon 
a  thistle.  He  very  naturally  cried  out,  and  his 
clamor  wakened  the  villagers,  who  flew  to  arms, 
and  drove  the  sea-robbers  away.  Thereafter  the 
thistle  was  honored  in  Scotland  as  the  goose  was 
in  Rome.  It  was  adopted  as  the  national  flower. 
It  blooms  with  the  rose  of  England  and  the 
shamrock  of  Ireland  in  the  floral  emblem  of 
Great  Britain,  and  many  noble  Scottish  families 


338    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

have  portrayed  this  wayside  weed  on  their 
escutcheons. 

The  thistle  is  a  member  of  the  great  composite 
family  and  its  bloom  is  a  mass  of  flowers  set  very 
close  together.  They  are  purple  to  please  the  bees, 
for  purple  and  blue  are  the  colors  which  those  busy 
little  insects  love  best,  and  they  are  rich  in  nectar. 
In  most  sorts  the  tube  of  each  floret  is  so  long 
and  narrow  that  crawlers  find  it  difficult  to  get  in 
after  the  nectar,  and  winged  insects  with  short  pro- 
boscides  cannot  reach  it  either.  Nature  means  to 
save  it,  if  she  can,  for  the  butterflies  and  bees. 

But  the  little  Canada  thistle  has  flower-tubes 
shorter  than  those  of  other  species,  and  hence  its 
nectar  can  be  drained  by  insects  of  many  varieties. 
The  honey  rises  into  the  throat  of  the  flower,  so 
as  to  be  accessible  even  to  insects  with  very  short 
tongues,  and  hence  it  is  visited  by  a  large  number 
of  species.  Miiller  records  no  fewer  than  eighty- 
eight. 

The  mechanism  of  the  florets  is  like  that  in  the 
dandelion.  The  long  anthers  are  united  into  a 
tube,  which  closely  surrounds  the  pistil,  and  the 
pollen  is  shed  into  this  tube.  The  pollen-grains 
are  covered  with  little  points,  so  that  they  cling 
together,  and  the  whole  mass  of  them  is  pushed 


Thistles  and  Nettles  339 

out  at  the  top  of  the  anther  cylinder  by  the  length- 
ening of  the  pistil.  The  pistil  divides,  at  its  tip, 
into  two  little  arms,  which  are  thickly  clothed  on 
their  outsides  with  small  pointed  hairs.  So,  when 
the  top  of  the  pistil  emerges  from  the  anther-ring 
it  is  thickly  covered,  all  over  the  outer  surface, 
with  pollen.  In  most  instances  this  is  soon  re- 
moved, for  the  points  on  the  pollen-grains  cling  to 
the  hairy  bodies  of  visiting  insects.  A  little  later 
the  tips  of  the  pistil  separate  so  as  to  expose  the 
sticky  or  stigmatic  surfaces,  and  in  this  position 
it  waits,  open-armed,  for  a  pollen-freighted  friend. 
But  if  no  insects  visit  the  flower  the  arms  of  the 
pistil  curve  over,  as  do  those  of  the  dandelion,  and 
fertilize  themselves  with  home-made  pollen.  How- 
ever, Canada  thistles  are  rarely  thus  thrown  upon 
their  own  resources,  for  they  are  immensely  popu- 
lar and  entertain  guests  from  dawn  till  dusk.  As 
soon  as  pollen  has  reached  its  stigma,  or  when  it 
begins  to  wither,  the  blossom  bends  downward  and 
outward.  Having  had  its  day  and  its  opportuni- 
ty, it  retires  into  the  background  to  give  a  better 
chance  to  its  younger  sisters.  The  florets  of  the 
white  clover  (Fig.  95)  have  learned  a  like  habit  for 
the  family  good,  and  toward  midsummer  one  may 
find  a  white-clover  head  with  a  single  blossom 


340    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

standing  straight   up   while  all   the   rest   are    folded 

back  against  the  stalk. 
Those  which  bend  down- 
ward are  fertilized  florets 
enfolding  the  ripening 
seed,  or  unfertilized  florets 
which  have  begun  to 
wither.  The  one  erect 
flower  is  a  solitary 
watcher,  still  in  alert  ex- 
pectation of  the  hoped- 
for  bee. 

The  swamp-thistle,  with 
flower-tubes  longer  than 
those  of  its  Canadian 
cousin,  has  a  smaller  cir- 
cle of  insect  friends,  and 
the  common  thistle,  with 
still  deeper  florets,  is  more 
exclusive  still.  But  all 
varieties  are  forced  to 
receive  unbidden  guests, 
for  ants  dearly  love  nec- 
tar, and  they  are  enter- 
FIG.  95. — Gathered  in  latter 

summer.  prising,    persevering,   and 

chronically  hungry.      If   they  can   get  into    the   pur- 


Thistles  and  Nettles  341 

pie  tubes  they  will  gormandize  the  sweets  there, 
so  that  the  robbed  florets  will  have  no  inducement 
to  offer  to  butterfly  or  bee,  and  it  is  extremely 
unlikely  that  an  ant  will  pay  for  her  refreshments 
by  carrying  the  pollen  where  it  ought  to  go,  to 
another  flower  of  the  same  species. 

So  there  has  been  a  warfare,  summer  after  sum- 
mer, for  no  one  knows  how  many  years,  between 
the  ants,  which  want  to  get  into  the  purple  tubes, 
and  the  thistle-plants  which  want  to  keep  them 
out. 

The  devices  of  the  thistle  to  this  end  are  many 
and  wonderful.  Beginning  at  the  ground  (as  the 
ant  does),  we  find  that  the  stem  of  the  plant  is 
clothed  all  the  way  up  with  fuzz  or  hairs.  This 
makes  things  unpleasant  for  the  crawler,  for  "  noth- 
ing," says  Sir  John  Lubbock,  "  bothers  ants  like 
hairs."  In  some  varieties  of  thistle  the  stem  looks 
as  if  it  had  been  wound  around  and  around  with 
spider-webs,  and  often  these  are  gummy,  and  likely 
to  catch  the  crawling  insect  as  it  tries  to  work  its 
way  up. 

Along  the  stem,  here  and  there,  are  leaves. 
These  in  many  varieties  have  horny  edges  which 
roll  backward,  making  a  barrier  which  the  ant 
finds  it  very  difficult  to  surmount.  The  under 


342    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

sides  of  these  leaves  are  often  thickly  clothed  with 
long,  cobwebby  hairs,  nets  to  snare  the  little  clam- 
berer  and  hold  her. 

A  persevering  insect  which  labors  to  the  top  of 
the  stem  past  the  deterrent  leaves  finds  herself 
before  an  armed  body-guard  which  surrounds  the 
flowers,  a  close  frill  of  small  leaves,  often  with 
recurving  margins  and  thickly  set  with  thorns. 
And  in  some  kinds  of  thistle  a  crawler  which  has 
worried  through  all  these  obstacles  meets  and  suc- 
cumbs to  a  still  greater  difficulty  at  last.  The 
many  flowers  which  compose  the  thistle-head  grow 
all  together  in  a  deep-green  cup.  This  cup  is 
made  up  of  overlapping  scales,  and  around  it,  in 
many  varieties  of  thistle,  more  cobweb  is  wound. 

In  the  common  swamp-  and  pasture-thistles  (Fig. 
96)  each  scale  of  the  cup  has  in  its  centre  a  whitish 
streak,  which  is  very  glutinous.  Here  the  luckless 
crawler  comes  utterly  and  finally  to  grief,  after  all 
her  struggles  and  in  full  view  of  her  goal.  She  is 
held  fast  on  the  gummy  streaks,  and  her  frantic 
struggles  to  free  herself  only  result  in  bogging  her 
more  hopelessly.  The  gum  after  a  while  stops  up 
the  little  holes  in  her  sides  through  which  she 
breathes,  and  she  is  thus  smothered  to  death. 

Her   fate   is   not   only   tragic    but  perplexing — for 


FIG.  96. — Pasture-thistles  (Cnicus pumilis}. 
343 


Thistles  and  Nettles  345 

here  is  the  higher  being  sacrificed  to  the  lower, 
and  the  more  sentient  to  the  less  sentient. 

One  can  scarcely  think  of  a  plant  so  fertile  in 
defensive  devices  as  an  insensate  thing,  and  is  half 
inclined  to  fancy  that  the  thistle  continues  to  prac- 
tice in  modern  times  those  savage  modes  of  war- 
fare once  used  by  the  Highland  chieftains  who 
carried  it  on  their  standards. 

Nature  is  full  of  problems,  and  one  of  the  most 
difficult  is  to  reconcile  some  of  its  doings  with  the 
Divine  Law  of  love.  For  we  know  that  "  the  Lord 
our  God  is  One"  in  Nature  and  in  Revelation, 
and  that  "  if  Nature  is  the  garment  of  God  it  is 
woven  throughout,  without  seam";  its  loveliness, 
its  terror,  its  tenderness,  its  seeming  cruelty  are  all 
parts  of  one  beneficent  and  majestic  whole.  Yet 
Nature  seems  to  us  with  our  imperfect  knowledge 
a  blending  of  irreconciliable  things. 

The  solution  of  one  question  is  but  the  sugges- 
tion of  another,  and  the  ultimate  questions  remain 
wrapped  in  mystery  as  deep  as  that  which  enfolded 
them  when  God  spake  out  of  the  whirlwind  and 
propounded  problems  which  neither  Job  nor  his 
friends  could  solve. 

Meantime  a  wood-thrush  close  by  is  asking  over 
and  over  again  that  wistful  question  which  the 


346    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

wood- thrushes  ask  each  other:  a  question  expressed 
in  a  rising  cadence,  which  passes  into  silence  before 
we  can  fully  enjoy  the  exquisite  timbre  of  its  in- 
dividual tones. 

And  after  the  question  has  been  many  times  re- 
peated, there  comes  at  last,  from  far  across  the 
sunlit  fields,  that  falling  cadence  which  is  the  sweet 
and  satisfying  answer  to  it. 

Is  he  prophet  as  well  as  poet,  this  wood-thrush, 
with  his  work-a-day  brown  jacket  and  spotted  vest? 
After  our  many  questionings  will  we  get  our  an- 
swer too, — altogether  satisfying  and  utterly  sweet? 
The  thrush  seems  appalled  at  such  grave  question- 
ings, and  flits  off  to  his  friends  in  the  tree-tops  who 
have  not  learned  to  "look  before  and  after."  And 
as  we  see  the  last  flicker  of  his  wings  we  thank 
him  not  only  for  his  song,  but  also  for  its  suggested 
parable. 


CHAPTER    XV 
A    HANDFUL  OF   WEEDS 

"  All  the  idle  weeds  that  grow 
In  our  sustaining  corn." — King  Lear. 

OLD  Noah  Webster  defines  a  "  weed  "  as  "a 
useless  and  troublesome  plant,"  i.e.,  a  vegetable 
vagabond,  not  only  idle,  but  mischievous.  How- 
ever worthless  a  plant  may  be  from  a  utilitarian 
point  of  view,  it  is  hence  not  a  "  weed  "  till  it  be- 
comes so  thoroughly  at  home  in  the  land  as  to 
harass  the  gardener  and  the  farmer;  so  it  is  merely 
a  question  of  locality  whether  a  plant  is  a  weed  or 
not.  It  may  be  quite  without  honor  in  its  own 
country,  where  even  beauty  is  no  excuse  for  its 
being,  yet  under  alien  skies  it  may  find  itself  the 
pet  of  the  horticulturist.  The  little  pink-tipped 
English  daisy,  so  tenderly  reared  in  New  England 
gardens,  is  in  its  own  country  a  troublesome  lawn 
weed,  while  our  homely  mullein,  that  vagabond 
of  the  pastures,  is — or  used  to  be — cherished  in 
Irish  greenhouses  under  the  name  of  "  American 

flannel-plant."      I   have   even   heard   that   there  are 

347 


348    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 


FIG.  97. — Amaranth   and   sow-thistle  {Amarantus  retroflexus  and 
Sonchus  asper). 


A  Handful  of  Weeds  349 

places  west  of  the  Mississippi  where  wild-carrot,  de- 
spised intruder  on  Eastern  lawns,  is  cosseted  and 
extolled  under  the  appropriate  alias  of  "  lace- 
flower."  It  is  a  pity  that  we,  in  the  Eastern 
States,  have  become  blind  to  the  beauty  of  its 
feathery  leaves  and  its  wheels  of  delicate  bloom, 
which  in  later  August  fill  every  field  and  roadside 
with  unloved  loveliness. 

Indeed,  all  weeds  are  much  in  evidence  in  late 
summer  and  autumn.  The  flowers  of  most  sorts 
are  inconspicuous,  but  the  seeds  which  follow  com- 
pel attention  by  sheer  force  of  numbers  and  ubiq- 
uity. They  are  here  to-day  to  fight  the  farmers 
because  they  practised,  ages  ago,  what  the  farmers 
have  learned  only  within  much  more  recent  times. 

Nature  has  taken  extraordinary  care  that  the 
seeds  do  not  drop  at  the  roots  of  the  parent-plant 
into  an  exhausted  soil.  The  weeds  sow  themselves 
broadcast  each  autumn.  Some  are  provided  with 
feathery  plumes,  and  thus  made  so  buoyant  that 
the  lightest  breeze  will  bear  them  fast  and  far. 
Every  autumn  gust  is  freighted  with  a  mixed  com- 
pany of  these  little  flyaways.  Thistle,  sow-thistle, 
dandelion,  milkweed,  and  golden-rod  seeds  all  fly 
on  feathery  wings,  and  thus  the  respective  families 
are  kept  up,  and  are  spread  over  the  country. 


350    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

Some  weeds  lay  hold  on  the  passer-by,  quadru- 
ped or  biped,  and  force  him,  will  he,  nill  he,  to  sow 
their  seeds  abroad.  To  bring  this  result  about, 
the  seed  or  fruits  are  barbed,  and  they  claw  the 
unwary  traveller  and  cling  to  him  with  exasperating 
constancy.  When  the  ''stickers"  are  at  last  picked 
or  rubbed  off,  they  fall  to  the  ground,  probably 
many  rods  from  the  spot  where  they  grew,  and 
thus  Nature's  purpose  with  regard  to  them  is 
achieved.  This  is  the  way  the  ragweed  travels. 
The  thorny  seed-vessels  of  the  cockle-bur  and  the 
burdock  also  obtain  free  transportation  in  return 
for  their  close  attachment  to  some  wayfarer,  quad- 
ruped or  biped.  So  successful  have  been  these 
schemes  that  the  weeds  which  put  them  into  prac- 
tice have  travelled  half  around  the  globe.  Like  an 
invading  army  they  push  further  and  further  on, 
despite  all  the  resistance  of  the  owners  of  the  soil. 

Many,  indeed  most,  of  the  dooryard  weeds  come 
from  the  Old  World,  and  have  already  travelled 
across  this  continent  to  the  newly-cultivated  lands 
of  the  far  West.  Some  varieties  seem  unable  to 
live  far  from  human  habitations,  and  persistently 
follow  us  up  in  the  teeth  of  all  opposition.  Like 
the  mediaeval  Highlanders  they  have  become  sturdy 
and  resourceful  in  the  stern  training-school  of  con- 


A  Handful  of  Weeds  351 

tinuous  war.  We  can  almost  say  that  the  worse 
nuisance  a  weed  is  from  the  agricultural  standpoint, 
the  more  highly  is  it  adapted  to  the  conditions  of 
its  life,  the  more  is  it  a  triumph  of  reproductive 
Nature. 

It  is  common  just  because  it  has  been  able  to 
travel,  to  endure,  to  survive,  to  live  down  and 
crowd  out  a  host  of  things,  prettier  perhaps,  but 
less  able  to  battle  for  existence. 

Some  weeds  have  timed  themselves  with  won- 
derful accuracy  to  the  operations  of  the  farmer. 
That  bugbear  of  English  wheat-growers,  the  scar- 
let-poppy, has  acquired  the  habit  of  ripening  its 
seed-vessels  at  the  precise  time  when  the  wheat  is 
ready  for  the  sickle. 

In  our  land  and  latitude,  after  wheat  is  reaped, 
the  fields  are  taken  possession  of  by  weeds  which 
regulate  their  affairs  with  such  nicety  that  they 
grow,  blow,  mature  their  seed-vessels,  and  scatter 
their  seed,  all  between  the  ingathering  of  the  har- 
vest and  the  coming  of  the  frost. 

"They  blow,"  we  say,  for  all  weeds  bear  flowers. 
Most  sorts  belong  to  that  immense  and  successful 
botanical  family,  the  Compositae,  which  produce  a 
very  great  number  of  very  minute  flowers,  often  so 
grouped  as  to  resemble  single  larger  flowers.  To 


352    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

the  unbotanical  public  the  most  familiar  is  the 
daisy.  Its  yellow  centre  or  disk  is  an  assemblage 
of  little  trumpet-shaped  blossoms,  set  as  close 
together  as  possible.  In  a  ring  around  this  disk 
we  see  what  botanists  call  the  ''ray-flowers,"  and 
what  non-botanists  call  the  "  white  leaves"  of  the 
daisy.  On  close  examination  these  will  be  found 
to  be  tiny  florets  with  a  pistil  apiece,  but  with  no 
stamens,  and  with  their  white  corollas  split  open 
all  down  one  side.  So  the  daisy,  which  looks  like 
one  flower,  is  really  a  close  mass  of  very  tiny  blos- 
soms. The  cockle-bur,  ragweed,  sneezeweed,  bur- 
dock, and  sow-thistle  are  all  Compositae.  So  are 
the  groundsel  and  the  bur-marigold.  So  is  that 
enemy  to  the  western  farmer  and  darling  of  the 
patriotic  Scot,  the  thistle. 

Each  of  the  minute  flower-clusters  which  are 
massed  together  in  a  tuft  of  golden-rod  is  made 
up  after  the  daisy  pattern,  and  proves,  on  exam- 
ination, to  be  a  head  of  disk-flowers  surrounded 
by  an  aureole  of  ray-flowers.  Asters  are  clearly 
seen  to  be  arranged  on  the  daisy  plan.  So  is  the 
brown  and  yellow  "cone-flower"  or  "black-eyed 
Susan,"  and  so  are  the  sun-shaped  things  with 
names  beginning  with  "  heli  "  which  run  riot  over 
the  August  landscape,  as  if  earth  had  grown  enam- 


A  Handful  of  Weeds  353 

ored  of  the  sun  and  copied  his  dear  image,  again 
and  again  in  her  flowers. 

But  other  members  of  the  Compositae  family  have 
no  outflashing  rays,  but  are  made  up  entirely  of 
trumpet-shaped  florets  like  those  in  the  yellow  cen- 
tre of  the  daisy.  These  are  called  "  Tubuliflorae, " 
tube-flowers,  and  in  this  category  the  burdock  and 
the  thistle  are  found. 

The  florets  which  make  up  the  blossom-heads  of 
the  chicory,  salsify,  dandelion,  and  sow-thistle  are 
also  alike  in  form  and  color;  but  these  are  all  strap- 
shaped  like  the  white  rays  on  the  outside  of  the 
daisy. 

Those  members  of  the  Compositae  family  which 
bear  such  blossom-heads  as  these  are  called  Liguli- 
florae  "  strap-flowers." 

But  each  and  every  one  of  the  strap-shaped 
florets  borne  by  the  sow-thistle  and  its  allies  has 
both  stamens  and  pistil,  and  all  the  Compositae  of 
this  particular  persuasion  have  a  milky  juice. 

About  all  the  "  dooryard-weeds, "  which  have 
followed  mankind  for  ages,  there  has  gathered  a 
wealth  of  legend,  folk-lore,  and  literary  association. 

Amaranth  (Fig.  97),  "the  flower  of  death,"  for 
instance,  is  almost  as  common  as  death  itself. 
It  grows  in  waste  places  near  towns,  and  is  a 


354    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

coarse    weed,    topped    with  a    feathery   greenish    or 
purplish  plume. 

Some  species  of  amaranth  are  cultivated  in  old- 
fashioned  gardens,  and  called  "  cockscomb," 
"  love-lies-bleeding,"  and  "  prince's-feather."  The 
gardener  knows  and  hates  another  variety  under 
the  name  of  "  pigweed."  All  varieties  bear  blos- 
soms no  bigger  around  than  a  hair,  and  these  mi- 
nute flowers  grow  in  compact  clusters,  each  cluster 
surrounded  by  a  close  circle  of  chaffy  leaves,  very 
slow  to  wither.  The  familiar  "  immortelles," 
though  they  are  not  related  to  the  amaranth,  are 
on  the  same  botanical  plan,  and  their  white  chaffy 
leaves  (a  botanist  would  call  them  the  involucre) 
being  pretty  as  well  as  durable,  have  brought  the 
little  blossoms  into  general  favor.  The  unwither- 
ing  amaranth  was  looked  upon  by  the  ancients  as 
the  flower  of  immortality.  The  phrase  in  the  First 
Epistle  of  St.  Peter,  "  a  crown  of  glory  that  fadeth 
not  away,"  is  in  the  original,  "  the  amaranthine 
crown  of  glory."  The  purple  flowers  of  the  ama- 
ranth retain  their  color  always,  and  regain  their 
shape  when  wetted,  and  were  used  by  the  ancients 
for  winter  chaplets.  As  the  flower  of  immortality 
amaranth  was  strewed  over  the  graves  of  old  Greece, 
and  Homer  relates  that  the  Thessalonians  wore 


A  Handful  of  Weeds  355 

crowns  of  it  at  the  burial  of  Achilles.  Wreaths  of 
it  are  still  worn,  and  are  hung  over  doors  and  win- 
dows by  Swiss  peasants  on  Ascension  Day.  Milton 
speaks  of 

"  Immortal  amaranth,  a  flower  which  once 
In  Paradise,  fast  by  the  Tree  of  Life, 
Began  to  bloom ;  but  soon  for  man's  offence, 
To  heaven  removed,  where  first  it  grew,  there  grows 
And  flowers  aloft  shading  the  Fount  of  Life." 

And  his  angels  are 

"Crowned  with  amaranth  and  gold." 

From  being  the  flower  of  immortality,  amaranth 
became,  by  a  natural  association  of  ideas,  the  flower 
of  death.  In  a  beautiful  poem  by  Longfellow, 
"  The  Two  Angels,"  it  crowns  the  brows  of  Azrael, 
the  Death  Angel,  while  the  Angel  of  Life  wears  a 
wreath  of  asphodels  or  daffodils,  the  flowers  of  life. 
Because  perhaps  death  is  as  strong  as  love,  ama- 
ranth is  an  antidote  for  the  love-philtre.  Yet  who 
would  expect  to  find  the  flower  hymned  of  many 
poets  on  the  coarse  crouching  weed  which  invades 
the  bean-patch,  or  disfigures  the  gravel-paths  once 
our  pride? 

When  the  signal-service  was  still  far  in  the  un- 
known future  country  people  used  to  forecast  the 
weather  by  the  doings  of  some  common  and  familiar 
plants,  which  are  now  superseded  by  modern  science 


356    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

and  are  no  longer  consulted  as  oracles  or  rever- 
enced as  prophets.  "Chickweed,  for  instance,"  says 
Thistleton  Dyer,  "  expands  its  leaves  fully  when 
fine  weather  is  to  follow,  but  if  they  are  half  closed, 
then  the  traveller  is  to  put  on  his  great-coat"; 
and,  according  to  the  "  Shepherd's  Calendar,"  this- 
tle-down or  dandelion-down  "  whisking  about  and 
turning  around  foreshadows  tempestuous  winds." 
"  If  the  down  flieth  off  dandelion  and  thistles  when 
there  is  no  wind,"  says  another  old  collection  of 
flower-lore,  "  it  is  a  sign  of  rain." 

The  sow-thistle  (Sonchus  oleraceus)  (Fig.  97), 
though  it  is  an  immigrant  from  the  Old  World, 
is  already  common  enough  in  some  sections  of  the 
country  to  fall  under  the  ban  of  the  farmer. 
In  rural  England  one  of  its  popular  names  is 
"  hare's-palace,"  because,  according  to  the  "  Grete 
Herbale,"  "  if  the  hare  come  under  it  he  is  sure 
that  no  beast  can  touch  him." 

In  Italy  at  Christmas  tide  mangers  are  decorated 
in  honor  of  the  Christ-Child  with  mosses,  branches 
of  cypress  and  holly,  and  the  yellow  flowers  of  the 
sow-thistle.  Why  this  dooryard-weed  appears  in 
such  an  honorable  situation  we  cannot  tell.  Per- 
haps for  the  very  practical  reason  that  it  is  one  of 
the  few  flowers  to  be  found  blooming  out  of  doors 


A  Handful  of  Weeds  357 

in  mild  December  weather.  Or  perhaps  its  out- 
flashing  golden  petals  suggested  the  sun,  and  so 
the  rising  of  the  Sun  of  Righteousness,  much  as 
the  radiant  aspect  of  some  white  and  golden  June 
flowers,  caused  them  to  be  associated  with  Baldur, 
the  Norse  god  of  the  summer  sunshine. 

The  plantain  or  ribwort  (Plantago  major),  that 
persistent  intruder  upon  our  lawns,  was  once  highly 
esteemed  as  a  healer  of  wounds,  and  hence,  in  some 
parts  of  England  it  was  known  as  "wound-weed." 
One  would  almost  as  soon  associate  legend  and  fan- 
tasy with  a  cabbage  as  with  this  coarse-leaved  herb 
(Fig.  98)  whose  aspect  is  matter  of  fact  to  the  last 
degree.  Yet  in  rural  parts  of  the  Old  World  it 
was — perhaps  it  still  is — the  favorite  midsummer- 
dream  plant.  For  just  one  hour  on  just  one 
day  of  the  year  there  may  be  found,  beneath  its 
leaves,  a  rare  and  magic  coal  ;  and  with  this 
under  the  pillow  one  will  learn  one's  fate  in  a 
dream. 

"  When  Aubrey  happened  to  be  walking  behind 
Montague  House,"  says  Thistleton  Dyer,  (<  at 
twelve  o'clock  on  Midsummer's  Day,  he  saw  about 
twenty  young  women,  all,  apparently,  very  busy 
weeding.  On  making  inquiries  he  was  told  that 
they  were  looking  for  a  coal  under  the  root  of  a 


358    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 


FIG.  98. — "Ribwort"  and  "ripple-grass." 

<z,  Plantago  major;  b,  Plantago  lanceolata  ;  c,  young  floret  magnified :  d,  older 
floret  magnified. 


A  Handful  of  Weeds  359 

plantain,  to  put  beneath  their  heads  that  night, 
when  they  would  surely  dream  of  their  future  hus- 
bands." Some  matter-of-fact  person  long  ago  dis- 
covered that  the  "coal"  is  only  a  blackened  root, 
which  may  be  found  whenever  it  is  looked  for. 

From  long-cherished  faith  in  its  potency  it  has 
come  about  perhaps  that  in  the  north  of  England 
the  flower-spikes  of  the  closely  allied  ripple-grass 
(Plantago  lanceolata)  were  used  as  love- charms. 
But  no  magic  which  the  plantain  may  have  wrought 
as  an  inspirer  of  dreams  or  fetterer  of  maiden  fancy 
is  more  wonderful  than  the  story  of  its  past  as  told 
by  modern  science. 

"  Our  fields  are  full,"  says  Grant  Allen,  "  of  de- 
generate flowers,"  and  this  is  one  of  them.  When 
we  look  closely  at  its  green  spikes  we  see  that 
they  are  made  up  of  numerous  little  four-rayed 
blossoms,  whose  pale  and  faded  petals  are  tucked 
away  out  of  sight,  flat  against  the  calyx.  Yet  their 
shape  and  arrangement  distinctly  recall  the  beau- 
tiful blue  veronica,  and  it  has  been  surmised  that 
the  two  are  very  distant  cousins.  But  the  plantain 
flowers  gave  up  devoting  themselves  to  insects  and 
became  adapted  for  fertilization  by  the  wind  in- 
stead. Then  the  petals  were  no  longer  needed  as 
a  lure,  and  Nature  withdrew  their  bright  blue  pig- 


360    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

ment,  till  they  became  the  whitish,  papery  little 
affairs  we  see  to-day. 

Each  plantain  blossom  has  both  stamens  and  pis- 
tils, but  the  pistils  mature  first.  In  the  commonest 
varieties  they  project  between  the  folded  petals 
while  the  little  flowers  are  still  in  bud,  and  are  fer- 
tilized by  pollen  blown  to  them  from  some  neigh- 
boring spike.  Their  feathery  tips  are  wonderfully 
fitted  to  catch  and  hold  any  stray  grains  which 
happen  to  come  their  way.  After  the  little  plumes 
of  the  pistil  have  withered  away,  the  stamens  ripen 
and  dangle  out  on  cobwebby  filaments,  so  as  to 
scatter  all  their  pollen  to  the  four  winds. 

Let  us  notice  that  the  lower  flowerets  of  the 
spike  are  the  first  to  open ;  and  so  if  we  pick  a 
half-blown  spike  we  find  that  all  the  pistils  are  ripe 
above  while  the  stamens  are  ripe  below.  If  the 
upper  flowerets  opened  first  the  pollen  would  fall 
from  their  stamens  to  the  lower  flowerets  of  the 
same  spike;  but  as  the  pistils  below  have  always 
been  fertilized  before  the  stamens  are  ripe  above, 
there  is  no  chance  of  such  an  accident,  and  the 
seeds  of  each  spike  are  set  by  aid  of  pollen  brought 
from  another. 

So  the  plantain  is  wholly  adapted  to  wind  fer- 
tilization and  has  lost  the  bright  color  which  once 


A  Handful  of  Weeds  361 

upon  a  time  served  as  a  lure  to  the  insects  whose 
services  are  now  dispensed  with. 

This  "  degeneration,"  as  it  is  regarded  by  natur- 
alists, is  a  sad  result  to  follow  upon  untold  years 
spent  in  our  society.  For  the  plantain  is  a  "  weed 
of  civilization  "  which,  from  time  out  of  mind,  has 
sought  human  society  and  that  of  the  best.  So 
persistently  does  it  haunt  the  track  of  man  that 
one  of  its  old  popular  names  is  "  waybread." 

This  fondness  of  the  plant  for  the  edges  of  paths 
and  roads  has  given  rise  to  a  German  story  that 
it  was  once  a  maiden,  who,  while  watching  by  the 
wayside  for  her  lover,  was  transformed  into  a  weed 
by  cruel  magic  ;  yet  constant  through  all  changes, 
she  watches  by  the  wayside  still. 

The  North  American  Indians  call  the  plantain 
11  the  print  of  the  white  man's  foot."  Longfellow 
alludes  to  this  in  those  lines  of  "  Hiawatha"  which 
describe  the  coming  of  Europeans  into  the  wild 
lands  of  the  western  world: 

"  Where  so'ere  they  tread,  beneath  them 
Springs  a  flower  unknown  among  us, 
Springs  the  '  White  Man's  Foot '  in  blossom." 

Has  it  followed  us  westward  and  ever  westward 
out  of  that  mysterious  land  of  the  morning  where 
human  life  began?  Its  origin,  like  that  of  its  sister 


362    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

weeds,  is  wrapped  in  mystery,  and  its  ways  are  past 
finding  out.  But  one  thing  is  sad  and  sure:  indi- 
vidual weeds  come  and  go,  but  the  weed  crop  will 
never  fail  so  long  as  the  world  endures. 


CHAPTER    XVI 
THE   SLEEPING  OF   THE    FIELDS 

"A  Sabbath  of  rest  unto  the  land." 

— Leviticus  xxv.  4. 

UNLESS  one  is  blessed  with  a  contented  mind, 
a  well-filled  purse,  and  a  good  digestion,  it  is  some- 
times difficult  to  fight  off  depression  in  these  au- 
tumn days,  when  we  think  we  see  all  about  us  in 
the  outdoor  world  the  work  of  the  great  reaper, 
Death.  The  woodland  paths  are  littered  with  fallen 
leaves,  the  hardiest  garden-flowers  have  lost  their 
brightness,  and  even  the  wild  asters  have  doffed 
their  queenly  splendors  of  purple  and  gold  and  are 
gray  and  sombre,  like  Guinevere,  grown  old  and 
turned  nun. 

Now,  on  stormy  nights,  the  wind  sounds  a  differ- 
ent note  from  any  that  we  have  heard  in  summer, 
and  goes  by  with  a  low  howl  like  that  of  some 
strong,  savage  thing  into  whose  power  the  poor  earth 
is  soon  to  fall  helpless.  Yet  the  reign  of  the  Frost 
King  is  beneficent.  Difficult  though  it  may  be  to 

convince  ourselves  of  this    truth,   in  wet    November 

363 


364    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

weather,  when  yellow  leaves  shower  down  under 
dark  skies,  it  is  truth,  not  only  cheering  but  scien- 
tific. 

In  those  myths  which  were  the  nursery  tales  of 
the  world's  childhood  men  were  told,  ages  ago, 
and  over  and  over  again,  that  winter  is  the  sleep, 
not  the  death  of  the  fields.  The  winter  world  is 
Brunehild  pricked  by  Odin's  sleep-thorn.  She  is 
wrapped  in  slumber  which  seems  as  deep  as  that  of 
death,  yet  she  will  wake  at  once  to  the  kiss  of 
Sigurd — the  summer  sunshine. 

The  beautiful  summer  is  Proserpine  carried  off  in 
the  flower  of  her  loveliness  by  the  grim  Lord  of 
Hell  and  mourned  for  by  her  mother,  Ceres,  the 
bountiful  earth.  And  in  the  story  of  Alcestis  the 
myth  occurs  again.  In  both  cases  despair  is  turned 
to  joy.  Proserpine,  still  young  and  fair,  is  restored 
to  her  mother's  arms,  and  Alcestis  is  brought  in 
triumph  to  home,  husband,  and  children,  and  her 
return  is  celebrated  with  feast  and  song.  They  are 
both  stories  of  the  sure  return  of  spring — poetic 
ways  of  saying  that  winter  seems  to  rob  and  slay, 
but  in  reality  does  neither. 

To  one  who  goes  into  the  autumn  fields  with 
eyes  opened  by  Nature-study,  they  are  "  happy 
autumn  fields"  indeed.  The  idea  of  death,  which 


The  Sleeping  of  the  Fields  365 

is  their  superficial  suggestion,  is  merged  and  lost  in 
the  far  more  deeply  pervading  thoughts  of  rest  and 
resurrection.  The  brown  meadows,  in  which  the 
work  of  the  reapers  is  done,  have  borne  and  nour- 
ished the  crops  of  the  year,  the  food  of  millions. 
Their  summer's  task  completed,  they  lie  at  rest, 
gathering  from  air  and  sun,  from  autumn  rain  and 
winter  snow,  the  constituents  which  will  help  to 
feed  the  crops  of  another  year.  The  lilies,  which 
neither  toil  nor  spin,  have  yet  made  just  and  due 
provision  for  another  summer's  need.  In  bulbs, 
protected  from  frost  and  damp  by  a  coat  of  papery, 
scales,  the  young  foliage,  and  in  some  cases  even 
the  flowers  of  an  other  season,  sleep,  and  packed  in 
with  them  is  a  store  of  gums  and  starches  gathered 
for  the  needs  of  next  spring  by  this  summer's 
leaves  and  roots. 

The  orchard-trees  have  been  putting  their  vi- 
tallity  first  into  a  wealth  of  bloom,  and  then  into 
the  fruit  "  pleasant  to  the  eyes  and  good  for 
food."  Now  their  duties  are  done,  and  as  a  tired 
worker  removes  the  clothing  of  the  day  before 
lying  down  to  rest,  they  strip  themselves  of  the 
green  robes  which  they  have  worn  all  summer. 
The  forest-trees  by  September  have  formed  and 
ripened  their  seed.  And  all  have  laid  away  be- 


366    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

neath  their  bark  a  store  of  nourishment  which  will 
feed  the  tender  foliage  of  spring  when  it  first  be- 
gins to  grow. 

The  leaves  now  fading  have  not  been  suddenly 
slain  by  ruthless  frost.  For  weeks  they  have  been 
bringing  to  a  peaceful  and  fitting  close  a  life  which 
reached  its  fulness  in  the  dog-days.  While  as  yet 
summer  was  at  high  tide  nature  began  to  form 
across  each  leaf-stalk,  just  at  the  point  where  it 
joined  the  main  stem,  a  very  thin  layer  of  cork. 
The  manufacture  of  cork  is  not  a  trust  in  posses- 
sion of  the  Spanish  branch  of  the  oak  family. 
Cork  is  a  constituent  in  the  bark  of  most  native 
flowering-shrubs  and  trees.  It  is  also  used  by  vege- 
tation in  repairing  its  rents  and  healing  its  wounds, 
and  sometimes  a  layer  of  it  is  interposed  to  isolate 
diseased  or  dying  tissues  and,  as  it  were,  quarantine 
them  from  healthy  and  growing  ones.  The 
"  wound-cork  "  which  the  trees  use  in  lieu  of  court- 
plaster  may  be  covered  by  the  subsequent  growth 
of  trunk  or  branch,  so  that  eventually  it  lies  deep 
in  the  woody  tissues. 

But  wherever  it  is  met  with  cork  can  be  read- 
ily recognized  under  the  microscope  by  the  forms 
of  the  cells  composing  it.  They  are  square  or 
brick-shaped,  with  clear-cut  angles,  and  they  lie  as 


The  Sleeping  of  the  Fields  367 

bricks  do  in  a  house-wall,  pressed  closely  together 
in  horizontal  rows  (Fig.  99*2).  Sometimes  they  con- 
tain a  brownish,  granular 
substance,  but  oftener  they 
are,  in  the  expressive  phrase 
once  used  by  a  daughter  of 
Erin,  "  full  of  emptiness," 
and  in  this  case  they  may  be 
much  bent  and  crinkled.  FIG.  99a.— Cork  cells. 

(From  the  leaf-scar  of  the  horse- 
The        COrk        layer        which  chestnut  much  magnified.) 

severs  the  leaf  from  the  bough  does  its  work 
gently.  At  first  it  is  not  an  unbroken  sheet  of 
cells,  but  a  thin,  incomplete,  and  porous  plate, 
which  intersects  the  softer  tissues  of  the  leaf-stalk 
but  does  not  cut  across  the  bundles  of  fibres  and 
vessels  which  are  the  vital  connection  between 
bough  and  leaf. 

At  about  the  same  time,  or  a  little  later  in  the 
season,  another  change  takes  place  in  the  tissues  of 
the  leaf-stem.  Now  just  outside  the  forming  cork- 
plate  there  is  a  narrow  band  of  rounded  cells,  which 
lie  loosely  together  with  many  empty  spaces  among 
them.  This  is  the  "absciss"  or  "cutting-off"  layer, 
and  just  here  the  stem-tissue  is  very  easily  ruptured. 

By  October  the  corky  scale  at  the  base  of  each 
leaf-stalk  has  gained  its  full  thickness,  and  severs 


368    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

almost  completely  the  union  between  leaf  and 
branch.  Then,  some  frosty  night,  a  thin  plate  of 
ice  forms  in  the  absciss  layer,  and  the  separation 
between  leaf  and  branch  is  finished  and  final. 
When  the  morning  sun  melts  the  ice  the  leaves 
will  shower  from  the  boughs,  however  calm  the  air. 

And  now  Nature  doctors  the  wound  made  by 
the  leaf's  fall.  The  broken  ends  of  the  bundles  of 
fibres  and  vessels  left  at  the  scar  are  covered  (in 
many  trees)  with  a  protecting  gum,  and  a  little 
later  they  are  encompassed  by  the  growth  of  the 
cork-seal,  and  the  healing  of  the  scar  is  complete. 

The  falling  foliage  of  the  horse-chestnut  leaves 
scars  large  enough  to  show  clearly  the  marks  of 
Nature's  surgery.  The  cork-seal,  which  is  much 
in  evidence,  has  a  horseshoe-shaped  outline,  and  the 
slightly  projecting  ends  of  the  fibre-vascular  bundles, 
overlaid  by  a  dark,  glistening  gum,  suggest  the 
horseshoe-nails  (Fig  99$). 

What  falls  from  the  bough  in  autumn  is  little 
more  than  the  dead  skeleton  of  the  summer  leaf — 
mere  dry  skin,  empty  cells,  and  stringy  fibre.  Al- 
mos-t  all  the  living  substances  which  once  filled  the 
leaves  were  withdrawn  from  them  before  they  fell, 
and  are  now  safely  stored  away  in  trunk  and  boughs. 
Professor  Von  Sachs,  author  of  the  "  Physiology 


The  Sleeping  of  the  Fields 


of  Plants,"  has  observed  that  in 
autumn  the  cell-contents  of  the 
leaves  about  to  fall  are  changed  into 
soluble  substances,  and  these  are 
conveyed  to  the  permanent  parts  of 
the  plant.  The  protoplasm,  or  clear 
leaf-jelly,  disappears,  and  so  do  the 
little  green  chlorophyll  corpuscles 
which  float  in  it. 

"  I  was  able,"  says  Professor  Von 
Sachs,  "  by  microchemical  methods, 
to  follow  distinctly  the  travelling 
of  the  materials  (especially  of  the 
starch)  out  through  the  tissue  of 
the  leaf-stalk  into  the  shoot-axes. 
Moreover,  the  ash-analyses  of  sum- 
mer leaves,  compared  with  those  of 
autumn  ones,  show  that  the  most 
valuable  mineral  constituents  of  the 
leaves,  especially  the  potash  and 
phosphoric  acid,  also  pass  out, 
through  the  leaf-stalks,  back  into 
the  parts  of  the  bough  which  sur-  FIG. 99^. —Leaf-scar 

of  thehorse-chest- 

vive  the  winter.  nut,  showing  the 

cork-seal    studded 

By  time  the  leaves    fall  the   cells    with  the  blackened 

ends  of  fibro-vas- 

of    their    tissues    contain    little    else    cular  bu  n  dies. 

(Magnified.) 


370    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

than  a  few  mineral  crystals,  but  those  of  the  branch, 
just  under  the  cork  layer,  are  rich  in  starch  and 
protoplasm.  And  when  the  sun  comes  back  to  us 
from  the  South  these  living  principles  of  the  dead 
leaves  are  pushed  up  anew  into  the  April  buds, 
and  help  to  form  the  tender  foliage  of  another  year. 

When  Nature  begins  to  empty  the  leaf-cells  in 
autumn  the  little  green  disks  of  chlorophyll  "  lose 
their  normal  outline,  assume  irregular  shapes,  and 
their  coloring  matter,"  says  Professor  Von  Sachs, 
"  undergoes  changes."  The  crimson,  purple,  and 
golden-green  leaves  of  early  spring  are  leaves  into 
which  chlorophyll  has  not  yet  come.  The  crim- 
son, purple,  and  yellow  leaves  of  autumn  are  leaves 
in  which  chlorophyll  has  lost  its  green  color  and  its 
active  life.  The  splendor  of  the  October  woods 
was  prophesied  in  April,  but  the  leaves  which 
mutely  foretold  it  were  too  tiny  and  their  colors 
were  too  evanescent  to  catch  the  attention  of  busy 
people.  And  the  autumn  glory,  when  it  comes, 
more  than  fulfils  the  little  hints  and  half-promises 
which  the  trees  give  us  in  spring. 

Some  plants,  the  annuals,  never  awaken  from 
their  winter  sleep.  One  summer  is  their  span  of 
life.  But  these  are  but  a  small  proportion  of  the 
vegetable  world,  and  even  these,  by  the  time  sum- 


The  Sleeping  of  the  Fields  371 

mer  is  ended,  have  attained  full  growth,  blossomed, 
and  set  and  ripened  their  seed.  They  are  fading, 
not  because  frost  has  nipped  them,  but  because  old 
age  has  come  upon  them  and  their  life-work  is 
done.  Dying,  they  bequeath  their  goods  to  their 
descendants  and  natural  heirs.  The  materials 
drawn  out  of  their  leaves  go  into  the  ripening  seeds, 
to  be  used,  next  spring,  in  the  nurture  of  the  seed- 
lings. These  annuals,  after  their  seeds  are  ripe, 
are  little  else  than  an  empty  network  of  dry  dead 
cells.  The  sweet  alyssum  and  mignonette  are  meta- 
morphosed into  what  he  who  clears  up  the  garden 
calls  "  straw,"  their  juices  having  gone  to  fill  out 
the  seeds,  which  are  now  ripe  and  ready,  in  innum- 
erable little  pockets,  green  or  brown. 

In  scientific  botany  the  little  pockets  of  the  fruit, 
which  hold  the  ripened  seed,  are  known  as  "  lo- 
culi."  If  we  cut  an  apple  across  we  will  see  five 
of  these  loculi  arranged  in  the  form  of  a  star. 
They  have  transparent,  horny,  brownish  walls  and 
in  each  is  a  seed  or  two. 

Another  use  of  the  term  loculi  is  familiar  to  the 
classicist  and  to  the  antiquarian.  In  the  catacombs 
of  Rome  there  are  wall-spaces  all  honeycombed 
with  niches  designed  to  hold  the  bodies  of  the 
dead,  or  the  urns  containing  their  ashes.  And  each 
of  these  is  called  a  "  loculus." 


372    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

This  twofold  use  of  the  word  may  be  a  mere 
phililogical  accident.  But  it  suggests  to  our  minds 
the  thought  which  the  botanist  who  first  applied 
the  term  to  the  seed-case  had,  perhaps,  in  his — the 
analogy  used  by  the  apostle  in  teaching  that  the 
dead  body,  sown  with  tears,  is  as  the  seed,  and 
the  soul  is  as  the  germ,  which  lives  on  in  trans- 
figured beauty  when  "  God  giveth  it  a  body,  as  it 
hath  pleased  Him." 

Where  each  flower  has  perished,  in  garden  or 
field,  there  is  a  seed,  or  more  probably  a  pocket 
filled  with  seeds,  each  a  prophecy  and  a  pledge  of 
the  flowers  which  will  gladden  the  earth  next  year. 
And  each  leaf,  falling,  leaves  behind  it  a  bud,  from 
which  a  cluster  of  leaves  or  a  cluster  of  flowers  will 

unfold. 

• 

All  things  have  their  price,  both  in  the  spiritual 
and  in  the  natural  world.  Without  the  torpor  of 
winter,  the  freshness  and  gladness  of  spring  could 
never  be.  Semi-tropic  lands  which  escape  the  one 
miss  the  other.  Only  to  lands  which  have  known 
"  the  long  dark  nights  and  the  snow"  comes  the 
ecstasy  of  the  northern  spring,  when  skies  growing 
daily  brighter,  and  earth  awakening  under  them 
with  joy  foretell  to  us  the  "  new  heavens  and  the 
new  earth"  wherein  shall  dwell  righteousness. 


CHAPTER    XVII 
MARTINMAS     SUMMER 

Has  time  grown  sleepy  at  his  post 
And  let  the  exiled  summer  back? 

Or  is  it  her  regretful  ghost 
Or  witchcraft  of  the  almanac? 

—E.  R.  Sill. 

THE  still,  sunny  fall  days  are  the  serene  old  age 
of  summer.  In  them  they  year  seems  to  go  back, 
as  old  people  sometimes  do,  to  the  memories  and 
ways  of  her  early  youth,  and  October  and  No- 
vember sometimes  behave  like  April,  to  the  utter 
confusion  and  ultimate  destruction  of  the  flowers. 
For  the  flowers,  not  having  "  evoluted  "  to  the  use 
of  almanacs,  must  regulate  their  affairs  by  guess- 
work, and  when  the  sun  shines  brightly  above 
them,  and  the  earth  feels  warm  and  moist  about 
their  roots,  they  are  grievously  deceived,  and  mis- 
take the  Indian  summer  for  the  spring. 

So  it  is  by  no  means  uncommon  to  find  spring 
blossoms  in  late  autumn,  and  this  is  especially  apt 
to  be  the  case  when  the  early  fall  has  been  rainy. 

A  week  or  two  of   mild  and    showery   weather   will 

373 


374    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 


FIG.  loo.  — Witch-hazel  {ffamamelis  Virginica). 
(From  Report  of  Botanist  in  Annual  Report  of  Secretary  of  Agriculture,  1885.) 


Martinmas  Summer  375 

sometimes  coax  a  number  of  dandelions  into  bloom. 
The  little  blunderers  will  probably  be  overlooked, 
for  we  are  apt  to  observe  the  things  we  expect  to 
find  and  to  miss  those  we  are  not  looking  for,  and 
we  certainly  are  not  looking  for  October  dandelions. 
There  they  are,  however,  gladdening  the  roadsides 
in  many  places.  Let  us  hope  that  they  will 
have  time  to  set  their  seed  and  float  it  away  to 
pastures  new  on  gauzy  parachutes  before  winter 
comes  swooping  down  out  of  the  North. 

Violets,  too,  blossom  sparingly  in  late  fall  sun- 
shine. In  golden  Indian-summer  weather  one  may 
gather  them  as  late  as  Thanksgiving.  Wild  straw- 
berries sometimes  bloom  quite  luxuriantly  in  Sep- 
tember or  October.  Here  and  there  a  willow  pussy 
thrusts  its  furry  foolish  head  above  the  bud-scales, 
which  should  have  screened  it  till  the  spring,  and 
in  sheltered  garden  spots  the  early-flowering 
shrubs,  especially  the  pyrus  japonica  and  bridal- 
wreath,  put  forth  a  few  fall-blossoms. 

Some  hardy  weeds  are  so  eager  to  seize  upon 
every  opportunity  afforded  by  the  chances  and 
changes  of  our  climate,  that  a  few  days  of  mildness 
and  sunshine,  in  the  heart  of  winter,  will  coax  them 
into  bloom. 

There  is  no  month  in  the  year  in  which  one  may 


376    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

not  see  the  flowers  of  chickweed,  sow-thistle,  and 
shepherd's-purse,  the  little  pink-purple  blossoms  of 
the  dead-nettle,  and  the  dandelion's  disks  of  gold. 
But  the  superstitious  soul  had  better  leave  them  to 
the  mercies  of  Jack  Frost,  for  it  is  highly  unlucky, 
according  to  an  old  saying,  to  pluck  flowers  out  of 
season. 

Even  the  sight  of  these  untimely  blossoms  is 
distressing  to  some  superstitious  souls.  In  the 
eastern  townships  of  Canada,  where  Old  World 
sentiments  and  sayings  linger,  many  persons  own 
to  a  decidedly  uncomfortable  feeling  if  an  apple- 
tree  blossoms  in  the  fall.  A  like  superstition  pre- 
vails in  New  England,  and  probably  the  idea  in 
both  cases  is  traceable  to  Old  England,  where  it 
has  been  embodied  in  the  Northamptonshire  jingle: 

"A  bloom  upon  the  apple-tree  when  apples  are  ripe, 
Is  a  sure  termination  to  somebody's  life." 

But  people  have  not  always  thus  looked  askance 
at  belated  blossoms.  The  "holy-thorns"  of 
England  won  a  great  reputation  for  beneficent 
potency  by  putting  on  their  adornment  when  all 
the  woods  were  bare.  Once  upon  a  time  the  com- 
mon folk  firmly  believed  in  the  magical  and  medical 
virtues  of  these  trees,  and  legends  were  told  to 
account  for  their  winter  blossoming.  The  wealthy 


Martinmas  Summer  377 

gave  large  sums  for  cuttings  from  them,  to  plant  in 
their  own  gardens.  The  patriarch  among  these 
beloved  trees  was  the  famous  Glastonbury  white- 
thorn, which  sprouted,  so  runs  the  story,  from  a 
staff  planted  by  Joseph  of  Arimathea.  Its  habit 
of  late-fall  flowering  gained  for  it  a  widespread  and 
holy  reputation,  which  became  its  own  undoing. 
A  Puritan  soldier,  moved  by  that  strange  spirit 
which  prompted  the  destruction  of  things  because 
other  people  thought  them  beautiful  or  held  them 
in  reverence,  cut  it  down  as  an  "  emblem  of 
popery."  It  was  supposed  to  flower  every  Christ- 
mas day. 

Leaves,  like  flowers,  are  sometimes  "  born  out  of 
due  time"  under  shining  autumn  skies.  Among 
the  last  of  the  old  foliage,  when  the  trees  are 
nearly  stripped,  sharp  eyes  may  see,  here  and 
there,  a  cluster  of  two  or  three  leaves  unfolding  in 
the  tender  green  of  spring.  Horse-chestnut  buds 
are  particularly  apt  to  open  thus  unseasonably,  and 
elm  buds  are  likewise  prone  to  err. 

The  October  dandelions  and  November  violets 
make  their  ill-timed  display  on  a  stock  of  savings 
which  was  intended  for  their  use  next  spring. 
Last  spring,  after  the  flowers  faded  and  the  pre- 
cious seed  was  set,  the  plants  turned  their  energies 


378    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

toward  providing  for  the  wants  of  the  future. 
The  leaves  drank  in  the  summer  sunshine,  the  roots 
soaked  up  what  summer  rain  the  weather-gods 
vouchsafed  them,  and  the  food  thus  gathered  was 
stored  away  in  the  root  for  future  use.  The  bridal- 
wreath  and  pyrus  japonica  shrubs  were  equally  fore- 
handed. In  spring  they  were  obliged  to  support 
a  showy  and  expensive  family  of  flowers,  which 
needed  for  their  maintenance  all  that  the  parent 
bushes  could  scrape  together.  When  flowering 
time  was  over,  however,  the  bushes  began  to 
gather  a  store  of  gums  and  starches,  to  be  laid  by 
till  spring.  All  the  trees  and  bushes  have  thus  put 
by  a  store  of  nourishment.  They  will  need  it  all 
next  April,  when  the  countless  buds,  studding  the 
branches,  begin  to  swell  under  our  eyes,  and  they 
will  need  it  still  more  in  May,  when  young  foliage 
begins  to  expand  and  when  baby-blossoms  are 
doing  their  growing. 

The  buds  which  open,  here  and  there,  in  the 
autumn  sunshine,  are  using  capital  which  they 
ought  not  to  touch  for  five  months  to  come.  But 
they  can  get  only  a  small  portion  of  this  capital, 
and  hence  they  seldom  expand  very  far,  even  if 
mild  weather  continues.  For  the  main  stores  of 
gum  and  starch  are  securely  locked  up,  as  we  shall 


Martinmas  Summer  379 

see,  in  the  centre  of  the  larger  branches,  so  that 
the  erring  buds  can  only  draw  upon  a  few  neighbor- 
ing cells  of  the  plant-tissue.  When  the  ill-timed 
growth  has  exhausted  these  very  limited  resources 
it  will  cease,  whether  it  is  checked  by  the  cold 
winds  of  autumn  or  not. 

As  for  the  young  leaves,  so  rash  and  so  "  forth- 
putting,"  Mother  Nature  recently  tucked  them  up, 
all  snug  and  safe,  to  sleep  till  spring. 

As  this  summer's  foliage  falls  we  begin  to  see 
myriad  buds  studding  the  boughs,  and  every  bud  is 
a  wind-rocked  cradle  for  next  year's  baby-leaves 
or  flowers. 

The  bare  and  silent  woods  are  full  of  sweet  mute 
promises  of  spring.  Beneath  the  purple  scales  of 
the  elder-buds  we  can  find  the  blossom-cluster, 
already  perfect  though  it  is  no  larger  than  a  pea. 
Next  spring's  "pussies"  are  formed  and  ready 
in  the  large  golden-green  buds  which  stud  the 
twigs  of  the  swamp-willows.  And  on  the  birch 
and  alder  branches,  among  the  little  cones  which 
ripened  last  summer,  are  the  staminate  catkins 
which  will  shake  out  their  gold  to  the  April  breezes. 
But  all,  if  they  be  wise,  will  "  lie  low  "  till  the  sun 
returns  from  the  South. 

The  tender  spring-flowers  which  come  in  confid- 


380    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

ing  innocence  into  an  autumn  world  recall  Hans 
Andersen's  pathetic  story  of  the  "  Sommer  Gowk." 
It  is  the  Danish  popular  name  for  the  snowdrop 
— "  the  summer-fool  " — cheated  by  false  hopes  of 
summer  into  the  clutches  of  present  winter.  The 
"Sommer  Gowk"  is  chilled  and  beaten  down 
by  a  shower  of  sleet,  and  gets  hardly  a  glimpse 
of  sunshine,  and  no  summer  at  all.  And  yet  in 
the  South,  "  over  the  hills  and  far  away,"  summer 
is  filling  all  the  fields  with  sunshine  —  summer 
fair  and  real — and  drawing  nearer  day  by  day. 
The  "  Sommer  Gowk,"  says  Andersen,  is  like  the 
noble  souls  born  into  a  world  as  yet  unfit  to  re- 
ceive them.  The  prophets  who  gave  their  high 
spiritual  message  to  ears  dulled  by  sensuality  or 
sloth,  the  poets  who  had  no  recognition  save  from 
posterity,  the  reformers,  persecuted  or  laughed  at 
by  their  own  age,  but  honored  by  a  later  one — 
were  they  not  Sommer  Gowks,  one  and  all?  And 
science,  too,  has  had  its  Sommer  Gowks,  for  all 
its  great  schemes,  from  the  discovery  of  America 
to  serial  navigation,  have  seemed  dreams  in  their 
day. 

But  "  the  world's  dreamers  have  been  its  bene- 
factors." And  so  in  the  November  violets  we  may 
see  a  reminder  of  those  who,  in  dark  days  and  in 


Martinmas  Summer  381 

mental  and  spiritual   loneliness,   foresaw  the  coming 
of  fuller  life,   light,  and  liberty. 

How  many  there  have  been!  From  heavenly- 
minded  Job,  harshly  criticised  by  his  more  material 
companions  in  the  dawn  of  time,  to  Savonafola 
and  Latimer,  Columbus  and  Galileo,  Andreas 
Hofer  and  John  Brown,  and  thence  on,  through 
the  years,  to  the  "  crank"  or  "  dreamer  "  or  "  un- 
practical sentimentalist  "  who  is  the  newspaper  butt 
of  our  own  day.  But  they  have  all  been,  like  the 
Sommer  Gowk,  prophets  of  the  spring. 

The  same  Indian-summer  weather  which  throws 
the  violets  out  of  their  reckoning  brings  into  bloom 
our  very  last  wild  flower,  the  witch-  or  wych-hazel. 

Its  popular  name  is  due  to  a  double  mistake  in 
nomenclature,  which  has  mixed  things  up  in  con- 
fusion worse  confounded.  The  early  American 
settlers  saw  somthing  in  its  foliage  or  habit  of 
growth  suggestive  of  the  English  witch-hazel,  to 
which  it  is  in  nowise  related.  So  they  transferred 
the  old  English  name  to  the  newly-discovered 
American  shrub,  being  influenced  probably  by  the 
same  love  for  the  home-words  which  prompted  them 
to  call  the  red-breasted  American  thrush  a  robin 
and  the  marsh  marigold  a  cowslip.  But  the  Eng- 
lish witch-hazel  is  not  a  hazel  at  all,  but  an  elm 


382    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

(Ulmus  montana),  and  it  got  its  popular  name 
because  its  foliage  somewhat  resembles  that  of  the 
hazelnut-tree  (Corylus  Americana). 

The  English  witch-hazel  or  wych-elm  was  sup- 
posed to  possess  magic  powers.  It  indicated  the 
presence  of  hidden  springs  and  of  ores.  Even  at 
the  close  of  the  last  century  Cornish  miners 
were  so  confident  of  its  efficacy  that  they  scarcely 
ever  sunk  a  shaft  but  by  its  direction,  and  those 
dexterous  in  the  use  of  the  divining-rod  professed 
to  be  able  to  mark,  on  the  surface  of  the  soil,  the 
direction  and  breadth  of  the  ore-vein  beneath. 
A  forked  twig  of  the  Ulmus  montana  was  also 
used  for  the  detection  of  witches,  and  hence  the 
tree's  popular  name. 

When  the  first  settlers  transferred  the  old 
English  name  to  the  New  England  shrub  they 
also  transferred  all  the  folk-lore  and  wonder-lore 
thereunto  appertaining  and  belonging. 

Whether  the  American  wych-hazel  has  lived  up 
to  the  reputation  thus  suddenly  thrust  upon  it  we 
do  not  know.  Certainly  it  has  a  half-uncanny 
look  when  one  chances  upon  it,  all  abloom,  in 
woods  where  the  last  autumn  gold  is  growing  sere. 
For  it  wears  the  aspect  of  an  April  blossom,  yet 
we  find  it  in  latter  October  or  November,  when 


Martinmas  Summer  383 

all  about  it  the  leaves  are  falling,  and  when  the 
brook  by  which  it  loves  to  grow  runs  turbidly, 
swollen  by  the  heavy  rains  of  the  latter  year. 

The  flowers  provide  a  last  feast  for  the  flies  and 
bees  which  are  tempted  abroad  by  the  sunshine 
of  Indian  summer,  and  the  pale  gold  of  the  strap- 
shaped  petals  is  conspicuous  in  the  general  color- 
lessness  of  the  thickets. 

There  are  two  sets  of  stamens, — longer  ones  which 
produce  pollen,  and  shorter  ones  which  do  not  and 
which  have  dwindled  to  mere  reminiscent  scales. 
The  fruit,  like  that  of  the  orange-tree,  takes  nearly 
a  year  to  ripen,  and  will  not  be  fully  matured  till  next 
September,  so  that  last  year's  fruit  and  this  year's 
blossoms  may  be  seen  on  the  branches  together. 

The  flowers  issue  in  trios  from  little  downy  buds 
and  begin  to  open  as  the  leaves  fall.  Spring  and 
summer,  which  called  forth  all  the  other  blossoms 
of  field  and  woodland,  failed  to  draw  out  the  hid- 
den beauties  of  the  witch-hazel  buds,  but  now  at 
the  threshold  of  winter  they  don  their  gold.  And 
as  we  gather  them  for  the  last  wild-flower  bouquet 
of  the  season,  we  think  of  their  analogies  in  human 
lives — the  late-developed  talent,  the  fulfilling  of 
the  long-deferred  hope,  the  coming  of  the  happi- 
ness, denied  in  youth,  to  one  whose  hair  is  gray. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 
IN    WINTER    WOODS 

The  JNight  is  Mother  of  the  Day, 

The  Winter  of  the  Spring; 
And  ever  upon  old  Decay 

The  greenest  mosses  cling. 

Behind  the  cloud  the  starlight  lurks, 
Through  showers  the  sunbeams  fall ; 

For  God,  who  loveth  all  his  works, 
Has  left  His  Hope  with  all.—  Whittier. 

WHEN  the  "  leaves  have  forsaken  the  trees  and 
the  forest  is  chilly  and  bare"  it  seems  that  the 
wandering  botanist  will  find  nothing  there  to  inter- 
est or  amuse  him. 

But  botany,  like  evil  doing,  has  all  seasons  for 
its  own,  and  even  when  leaves  and  flowers  are  gone, 
there  are  still  in  the  woodlands  a  few  signs  that 
the  world's  heart  is  beating  still  under  its  slumber- 
robe  of  snow. 

Some  humble  plants  go  on  growing,  even  at  a 
season  when  one  would  suppose  all  vegetation  to 
be  benumbed  with  winter's  icy  breath. 

In  sheltered  hollows,  where   the    sunshine   causes 
384 


In  Winter  Woods  385 

a  little  thawing  now  and  then,  we  can  always  find 
a  few  green  ferns.  Lichens,  which  make  their 
homes  as  far  north  as  the  Arctic  circle,  are  not 
discouraged  by  the  worst  our  January  can  do. 
Some  mosses  are  green,  still,  under  the  snow,  and 
on  the  trunks  of  many  trees,  even  now,  we  may 
notice  a  green  film  which  is  caused  by  the  growth 
of  some  tiny  and  humble  cousins  of  the  rich  green 
11  sea-lettuces "  which  float  at  the  edges  of  tidal 
pools  on  rocky  coasts. 

Probably  the  very  great-grandparents  of  these 
little  land  algae  were  seaweeds  or  fresh-water 
weeds,  and  the  family  love  for  coolness  and  shade 
is  constant  through  all  changes.  For  when  the 
leaves  are  gone,  and  even  subdued  colors  "tell" 
amid  the  general  grayness  of  the  woodlands,  we 
see  how  persistently  the  land  algae  choose  the 
north  sides  of  the  tree  trunks.  Lichens,  too,  love 
best  to  grow  where  the  direct  rays  of  the  sun 
cannot  reach  them. 

We  look  southward  through  the  woods,  and  every 
tree  from  earth  to  branches  is  spotted  or  filmed, 
or  shrouded  with  a  close-clinging  growth  of  sober 
but  living  green.  We  see  the  north  sides  of  all 
the  tree-trunks  and  they  are  covered  with  minute 
shade-loving  plants. 


386    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

But  if  we  turn  and  look  northwards  through  the 
woods  the  trunks  appear  bare.  By  this  little  bit 
of  wood-lore  Indian  hunters  used  to  "  get  their 
bearings"  in  the  pathless  forests. 

Raising  our  eyes  we  notice  the  great  beauty  of 
the  patterns  which  interlacing  boughs  and  twigs 
trace  against  the  sky.  Each  tree  has  its  own 
beauty,  for  the  form  of  the  bare  branches  is  al- 
most as  distinctive  as  that  of  the  leaves,  while 
bark  is  so  characteristic  that  a  hunter  or  a  lumber- 
man can  often  tell  the  name  of  a  tree  from  its 
bark  alone. 

By  time  the  dark  days  of  November  come  the 
trees  are  all  asleep  and  each  is  wrapped  from  its 
topmost  twigs  to  its  lowest  roots  in  a  slumber-robe  of 
Nature's  own  weaving,  a  close  tissue  of  cork-cells. 

Though  every  plant  of  the  field  and  every  tree 
of  the  wood  is  entirely  built  of  cells,  these  cells 
may  differ  widely  from  one  another  in  shape,  size, 
and  use. 

They  may  be  filled  or  partly  filled  with  color- 
less jelly,  they  may  contain  resin,  tannin,  mucilage, 
oil,  or  mineral  crystals,  or  they  may  be  empty. 
They  may  be  many  sided,  or  cylindrical,  or  spindle- 
shaped,  or  thread-like,  and  the  thread-like  ones 
may  be  straight  or  twisted  or  branched.  Some- 


In  Winter  Woods  387 

times  the  cell  walls  are  very  thick,  sometimes 
they  are  thin,  and  sometimes  they  are  pitted  or 
barred  or  ringed  so  that  under  the  microscope 
they  show  patterns  of  great  beauty. 

A  tiny  sliver  of  wood  may  be  made  up  of  many 
kinds  of  cells,  which  are  alike  only  in  one  respect 
— that  the  tree  has  had  a  use  for  them  all. 

Toward  the  centre  of  the  trunk  and  larger 
branches  lie  the  oldest  cells,  whose  work  is  nearly 
or  entirely  done. 

They  form  the  "  heart-wood  "  which,  as  every 
cabinetmaker  knows,  is  darker  in  color  and  closer 
in  texture  than  the  younger  "  sap-wood  "  which 
surrounds  it. 

Outside  the  "sap-wood"  there  is  in  spring  a 
layer  of  young  growing  cells  which  are  building  up 
new  bark  and  new  wood.  In  April  we  shall  find 
this  forming  tissue  lying  just  below  the  bark,  be- 
tween it  and  the  wood. 

But  at  this  season  no  active  growth  is  going 
forward,  and  no  delicate  new  cells  are  forming 
and  swelling  between  the  tree  and  its  bark. 

In  the  bark  itself,  at  varying  depths  according 
to  the  kind  of  tree,  lie  several  layers  of  cork-cells. 

In  summer  this  cork  undergarment  covers  all 
the  tree  except  the  tops  of  its  tenderest  twigs  and 


388    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

the  ends  of  its  slenderest  rootlets.  Nature  has  taken 
care  that  the  water  sucked  in  by  the  roots  shall  not 
be  evaporated  and  lost  as  it  goes  up  through  trunk 
and  branches  to  the  thirsty  little  shoots  at  top. 
So  the  year-old  twigs  have  a  tough  skin,  which  is 
nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  thin  sheet  of  cork, 
while  older  branches  are  encased  by  a  thicker  cork- 
covering,  which  lies,  as  a  rule,  below  the  surface. 
Be  it  thin  or  thick  it  is  perfectly  water-proof. 

The  peel  of  a  potato  is  nothing  more  nor  less 
than  a  layer  of  cork-cells,  and,  by  observing  the 
quickness  with  which  pared  potatoes  "  dry  out," 
we  realize  how  effective  even  a  thin  cork-covering 
can  be  in  preventing  the  transpiration  of  vegetable 
moisture. 

The  life-giving  juices  of  the  tree  can  not  get 
through  the  cork-layers  of  the  bark  to  nourish  the 
outermost  tissues  of  the  trunk  and  branches.  So 
all  these  parts  of  the  tree  which  lie  outside  the 
cork-layer  dry  up,  shrivel,  crack  apart,  and  at  last 
flake  off  and  fall  to  the  ground. 

These  dried  and  drying  tissues  may  include  cells 
of  many  sorts  and  sizes,  which  in  their  younger 
days  served  various  uses  in  the  tree's  domestic 
economy.  But  now  we  speak  of  them  all  together 
as  the  "  outer  bark.' 


In  Winter  Woods  389 

The  sheet  of  cork  which  is  wrapped  around  a 
branch  may  lie  near  its  surface  or  deep  in  its  tissues. 

And  their  various  and  sundry  ways  of  wearing 
their  union  suits  cause  marked  differences  in  the 
appearance  of  the  trees  even  in  winter,  for  the 
cracks  which  begin  at  the  outer  surface  of  trunk  or 
bough  will  go  "  clear  through"  till  they  come  to 
the  cork  sheet,  wherever  that  may  be. 

If  it  lies  deep,  the  cracks  in  the  bark  are  deep, 
and  the  ridges  between  them  are  high  and  rough, 
as  they  are  on  the  oak. 

The  beech,  on  the  contrary,  wears  its  cork-under- 
robe  just  beneath  its  outer  dress,  and  so  the  rents 
in  the  bark  are  shallow,  while  in  the  canoe-birch 
the  cork  layer  lies  on  the  surface  of  trunk  and 
boughs,  and  can  be  peeled  away  in  thin  sheets. 

In  some  trees  curved  plates  of  cork  form  deep 
beneath  the  surface,  and  as  the  woody  tissue  lying 
outside  them  dies  and  dries,  masses  of  bark  are,  as 
it  were,  gouged  out  of  the  living  trunk. 

When  these  plates  are  long  and  narrow,  and  are 
formed  horizontally,  the  bark  cracks  across  the 
trunk,  and  peels  away  in  broken  rings.  But  if  the 
long,  curving  cork-plates  stand  upright  in  the 
tissue  of  the  tree,  the  bark  which  they  cut  off 
comes  away  in  scales,  as  it  does  from  the  trunks 


390    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

of  pines  and  larches.  Sometimes  the  scales  form, 
but  remain  clinging  to  one  another  upon  the  tree, 
so  that,  in  the  course  of  years,  the  trunk  becomes 
covered  with  large  plates  of  dead  tissue,  overlap- 
ping each  other  like  shingles  on  a  roof,  and  mak- 
ing what  is  called  ''scale-bark."  Such  dried-up 
flakes,  clinging  together,  may  be  seen  partly 
covering  the  trunks  of  old  pine-trees. 

The  larger  roots  of  the  trees  are  wrapped  in  corky 
tissue,  just  as  the  trunk  and  branches  are,  but  in 
summer  the  slenderest  tips  of  growing  rootlets  are 
not.  The  chief  use  of  the  large  roots  is  to 
anchor  the  tree  to  the  spot  where  it  grows.  But 
the  work  of  the  little  rootlets  is  to  suck  up  moist- 
ure and  nourishment  from  the  surrounding  soil,  and 
if  they  were  sheathed  in  cork  they  could  not 
fulfil  this  office. 

Each  rootlet,  just  above  its  tiny  tip  end,  is 
furred  over  with  hairs  (Fig,  101),  slender  and  soft, 
yet  tough  enough  to  press  in  between  the  grains 
of  close-packed  soil,  and  draw  food  and  drink  out 
of  it. 

As  winter  approaches,  these  little  "root-hairs" 
shrivel  and  drop  off,  and  the  root-tip  from  which 
they  sprang  becomes  enwrapped,  like  the  larger 
roots,  with  a  layer  of  cork-cells.  So  the  whole  tree, 


In  Winter  Woods 


39' 


from  its  highest  to  its  lowest  point,  is  enfolded 
with  a  si  umber- robe  of  cork,  which  keeps  the  vege- 
table juices  in  and  helps  to  keep  the  cold  out. 

When  spring  comes  to  wake  the  earth,  the  deeper 
layers    of    soil    feel    the    sweet    influence    while    the 


FIG.  101. — Lengthwise  section  of  a  root-tip,  showing  root-hairs. 

(Much  magnified  ) 
(From  the  Vegetable  World.) 

surface  is  still  ice-bound.  Then  the  least  root-tips, 
far  underground,  cast  off  their  slumber-robes  and 
begin  to  absorb  moisture  from  the  soil,  which  seldom 
freezes  for  more  than  forty  inches  below  the 
surface,  even  in  the  bitterest  weather.  And  all 
winter,  alive  but  sleeping,  a  group  of  active  cells 


392    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

lies  just  behind  the  root-tip,  ready  to  put  out  fresh 
root-hairs  as  soon  as  spring  returns. 

While  the  root-tips  are  being  enclosed  in  cork- 
sheaths,  preparations  for  a  long  winter  sleep  are 
going  forward  among  the  branches  overhead. 

All  the  trees  which  wear  union  suits  of  cork  have 
on  their  youngest  branches  little  ventilating  holes, 
called  "  lenticels. "  These  can  be  plainly  seen  on 
the  twigs  of  birch,  beech,  cherry,  and  elder,  as 
rough  oval  dots,  slightly  raised,  and  different  in 
color  from  the  bark  around  them  (Fig.  102). 

Those  of  the  birch  become  greatly  extended  as 
time  goes  on  and  appear  as  sharply-drawn,  blackish 
stripes,  running  horizontally  around  the  trunk.  But 
on  the  roughened  older  bark  of  most  species  of 
tree  the  lenticels  are  hard  to  find,  though  they  are 
still  there. 

In  the  older  bark  of  the  cork-oak,  however,  we 
know  them  only  too  well,  for  the  brown,  powdery 
streaks  which  sometimes  run  through  bottle-corks, 
and  cause  them  to  crumble  vexatiously  when  one 
tries  to  draw  them,  were  the  lenticels  of  the  growing 
tree. 

A  lenticel  is  a  lens-shaped  rift  in  the  outer  bark, 
filled  in  with  a  loose  mass  of  cork-cells,  which  are 
not  rectangular,  and  ranged  in  rows  after  the 


In  Winter  Woods 


393 


FIG.    102. — Branches   of   alder   (a)   and    poplar-leaved    birch   (l>), 
showing  numerous  lenticels  (r). 


394    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

usual  custom  of  cork-cells,  but  rounded  and,  as  it 
were,  flung  together,  like  stones  tipped  out  of  a 
wheelbarrow.  Between  them  lie  many  little 
chinks  and  spaces,  and  by  way  of  these  the  air 
gets  into  the  wood,  and  the  moist  breath  exhaled 
by  the  living  tissue  of  the  tree  reaches  the  out- 
side air.  But  as  summer  wanes,  the  trees  fit  them- 
selves for  their  approaching  slumber  by  an  action 
which  might  be  compared  to  that  of  the  Hindoo 
fakir  of  Eastern  wonder-lore,  who,  before  entering 
his  death-like  trance,  stops  his  nostrils  with  plugs 
of  wax. 

For  at  the  end  of  the  growing  season  a  close 
layer  of  cork  forms  over  the  whole  surface  of  each 
lenticel,  and  seals  up  the  tree. 

So  the  breathing  away  of  the  tree's  moisture  is 
checked,  as  it  has  need  to  be,  at  this  season,  for 
now  no  active  little  root-hairs  are  at  work  down 
below,  sucking  up  water  from  the  ground.  And 
also  the  little  seals  of  cork  help  to  protect  the 
tissues  of  the  tree  against  sharp  and  sudden  frost. 

At  the  return  of  spring  a  number  of  new  cork- 
cells  will  be  formed  under  the  seal  which  Nature 
has  placed  upon  the  lenticel.  These  will  be  a 
light,  loose  mass,  like  that  which  fills  the  lenticels 
in  summer,  and  by  their  vigorous  growth  they  will 


In  Winter  Woods  395 

split  the  seal  above  them  and  open  the  lenticel 
once  more.  And  as  we  have  seen,  a  closing  layer 
or  seal  of  cork  has  grown  across  all  the  scars  whence 
last  summer's  leaves  have  fallen. 

Preparations  for  repose  have  taken  place,  not 
only  on  the  surface  of  the  tree,  but  in  its  inner 
tissues.  The  fluid  which,  in  summer,  mounts 
slowly  from  the  tiniest  rootlets  toward  the  leaves, 
is  the  4<  crude  sap."  It  is  water,  holding  in 
solution  chemical  substances  derived  from  the  soil. 
In  the  leaves,  as  we  remember,  it  is  worked  over 
into  the  "elaborated-sap"  which  builds  up  and 
feeds  plant-tissues.  And  this,  creeping  blindly 
from  cell  to  cell,  finds  its  way  to  the  tips  of 
roots  and  branches  where  growth  is  being  actively 
carried  on. 

So  in  latter  spring  and  summer  there  is  a  con- 
stant slow  movement  of  fluids  in  the  trees,  first 
from  the  roots  upward  and  then  from  the  leaves 
downward. 

Though  this  movement  is  connected  functionally 
with  the  tree's  feeding  and  digestion,  it  resembles 
the  circulation  of  the  blood  in  one  respect.  Crude 
sap,  like  arterial-blood,  flows  always  through  one 
set  of  channels,  while  elaborated  sap,  like  veinous- 
blood,  flows  always  through  another.  Crude  sap, 


396    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

as  we  have  seen,  travels  via  the  young  wood  ;  elab- 
orated sap  moves  through  the  inner  bark  or 
"  bast,"  where,  in  most  trees,  a  way  is  prepared  for 
it  through  what  are  technically  known  as  "  sieve- 
cells."  These  are  long  and  narrow,  and  run  length- 
wise of  trunk  and  boughs. 

As  the  sap  moves  through  them,  it  comes  to 
places  where  the  partition-wall  between  cell  and 
cell  is  "punched  full"  of  holes,  like  the  top  of 
a  pepper-pot.  Fine  fibrils  of  plant-jelly  reach 
through  these,  joining  the  contents  of  neighboring 
cells,  and  in  summer,  plant-fluids  pass  easily  all 
along  the  route.  But  as  autumn  approaches,  Nature 
seals  these  holes  and  isolates  the  "  sieve-cells." 

About  midsummer,  a  glutinous  plate,  called  the 
callus-plate,  begins  to  form  upon  the  little  sieve, 
stopping  up  its  pores.  This  gains  thickness  and 
solidity  all  through  the  waning  of  the  year,  and  by 
time  the  leaves  fall  the  route  through  the  sieve- 
cells  is  closed  as  completely  as  is  the  route  to  Klon- 
dike in  midwinter.  This  sealing  of  the  little 
sieves  has  a  beneficent  purpose.  At  almost  any 
time  throughout  the  winter,  in  our  latitudes,  we 
may  have  a  false  promise  or  mocking  similitude 
of  early  spring.  We  have  seen  that  several  gulli- 
ble or  foolhardy  herbs  may  be  cheated  or  dared 


In  Winter  Woods  397 

into  blooming  any  month  of  the  year.  Their  foli- 
age is  practically  evergreen,  so  that  their  untimely 
energy  results  in  nothing  worse  than  the  production 
of  a  few  futile  flowers,  which  ripen  no  seed.  But 
if  the  trees  were  to  put  forth  when  summer  was 
not  nigh  at  hand,  their  indiscretion  might  cost  us 
the  bloom  of  spring  orchards  and  the  luxuriance 
of  midsummer  woods. 

When  vegetable  life  resumes  its  functions  the 
starches  and  other  food-substances  stored  in  the 
wood  follow  the  route  of  the  elaborated  sap.  The 
starch-grains  are  dissolved  and  changed  into  fluid 
glucose,  which,  with  other  nutrient  fluids,  feels 
its  way  into  the  inner  bark,  and  then  creeps 
along  through  it  into  the  buds  where  life  is 
stirring. 

But  were  the  little  sieves  all  open  through  the 
winter  the  plant-food  stored  in  the  wood  could 
make  its  way  to  the  buds  at  any  time,  and  the  buds, 
thus  generously  fed,  could  unfold  in  a  few  days. 
Lured  by  the  false  promise  of  a  January  thaw, 
baby-blossoms  and  delicate  leaves  would  issue,  all 
too  quickly,  into  what  would  speedily  prove  a  cold 
and  inhospitable  world.  And  all  the  energy  used  in 
putting  them  forth  would  be  so  much  dead  loss 
to  the  tree.  So  wise  Nature  keeps  the  stores  of 


398    Field,  Forest,  and  Wayside  Flowers 

food  within  the  plant-tissues  safely  locked  up 
throughout  the  winter. 

And  thus  the  minute  pieces  of  callus  in  the  inner 
bark  help  to  preserve  the  beauty  of  the  forests. 

I  have  not  been  able  to  find  any  recorded  case 
of  the  reopening  of  a  little  sieve  which  has  once 
been  closed  and  sealed. 

It  seems  probable  that  the  very  first  growth  of 
spring  buds  is  fed,  as  is  the  unseasonable  growth 
of  too  forth-putting  autumn  ones,  by  the  nourish- 
ment drawn  from  closely  neighboring  cells.  By 
time  the  unfolding  blossoms  and  leaves  of  March  or 
April  have  exhausted  this  slender  store  the  cam- 
bium, which  is  formed  each  spring,  has  come  into 
being  and  has  taken  up  its  work.  New  sieve-cells 
have  been  formed  just  inside  the  old  ones  which 
were  sealed  up  last  autumn,  and  there  is  a  newly 
organized  bark-route  from  end  to  end  of  every 
trunk  and  bough.  So  nourishment  travels  on 
unchecked  to  the  expanding  buds,  and  when  the 
trees  are  fully  aroused  by  April  sunshine,  they  all 
at  once  begin  to  leaf  out  and  to  blossom,  as  the 
awakened  servants,  in  the  palace  of  the  Sleeping 
Beauty,  took  up  each  his  task  again. 

When  next  spring's  new  bark  is  formed,  last 
spring's  sieve-cells  will  be  pushed  a  very  little  way 


In  Winter  Woods  399 

outward,  and  each  successive  season's  growth  will 
force  them  still  further  from  the  centre  of  trunk  or 
bough.  So  after  awhile  the  sealed  and  disused 
sieve-cells  of  long-vanished  summers  find  their  way 
into  the  outer  bark,  and  are  sloughed  off. 

The  forest  where  "  frost  hath  wrought  a 
silence,"  and  where  every  tree  is  wrapped  in  its 
slumber-robe,  sleeps  as  one  who  expects  to  be 
aroused  and  loves  the  expectation. 

The  danger  guarded  against  is  not  that  the  trees 
will  sleep  too  late,  but  that  they  may  awaken  too 
soon. 

For  the  Earth's  heart  wakes  for  the  Sun-prince, 
who  is  coming  from  the  South,  and  the  woods, 
hushed  by  winter,  dream  of  spring. 

And,  as  sometimes  in  summer  nights  day-birds 
rouse,  call  to  their  fellows,  and  sleep  again,  we  can 
fancy  that  the  trees  now  and  then  half  awake, 
and  whisper  to  one  another,  "  Is  spring  drawing 
near?" 

Then  the  great  pine,  which  looks  southward  from 
the  hill  top,  sends  down  through  many  branches 
the  murmurous  message,  "  Not  yet,"  "  Not  yet." 


Index 


Aaron  Hill,  333 

Abele,  50 

Absciss  layer,  365,  366 

Abundant' pollen    of  coniferae, 

286 

Accessory  buds,  60 
Acorn,  71,  83,  84,  119,  120 
Acorn-cup,  71 
Acorns,  119 
"  Adam's  Needle  and  Thread," 

207 
Adders'  tongues,  251,  266 

prothalli  of,  252 
Adventitious  buds,  61 
Aerial  roots,  234 
Age  of  Reptiles,  285 
Albuminous  seeds,  118 
Alcohol,  94 
Aleurone,  119 
Algae,  fresh  water,  94,  95 
Algae,  land,  383 
Alkali-grass,  153 
Allen  (Grant),  quoted,  86,  319, 

320 
"Alternate  '  leaf  arrangement, 

122 
Alternation  of   generations    in 

ferns,  258 

Amaranth,  353,  354,  355 
American  Beauties,  136 
"  American  flannel-plant,"  347 
Andersen      (Hans     Christian), 

quoted,  378 
Annuals,  368 
Ants,  27,  79,  340,  341 
Anthers,  40 
Anther-ring,  42 
Apex  of  growth,  59 
Apple  blossom,  136 
Apple-seeds,  136 


Apocynum     androscemifolium, 

303 

Apocynum  cannabinum,  309 
Aquatic  flowers,  30,  31 
Arbor  vitae,  270,  272 
Archegonia,  formation  of,  255 
Archegonia  of   the    pine,    292, 

294 

Archegonia  of  selaginella,  291 
Arrow-head,  112 
Arrow-root,  295 
Asclepias  cornuti,  309 
Ash,  62 
Ash  buds,  76 
Ash,  European,  77 
Ash,  prickly,  74 
Ash,  white,  75,  76 
Ash  analyses  of  leaves,  367 
Asparagus,  94 
Asphodels,  355 
Asters,  352 
Atrophy,  84 
Awn,  169 

Bacteria,  97 

Bald  cypress,  270,  274,  298 

Balsam,  282 

Balsam  fir,  276 

Bamboos,  173 

Barbed  fruits,  350 

Barberry,  114 

Bark,  green,  132 

Bark,  nature  of,  384 

Bark,  outer,  386 

Barley,  62,  103,  118,  151 

Basis  of  life  (physical),  90,  91 

Bast,  128,  129,  130,  394 

Bast-tubes,  133 

Bay,  273 

Beach-grass,  155 

401 


4O2 


Index 


Beach-grass  committee  of  Prov- 

incetown,  155 
Beak  rush,  193 
Bean,  119 

Bean,  sprouting,  120 
Bear-grass,  131 
Beech,  69,  71,  387 
Bee,  19,  24,  29 
Bee-bread,  28 
Bee-flowers,  79 
Bees,  larger,  32 
Bees,  lesser,  32 
Beetles,  33 
Big-fly  flowers,  32 
Bind-weed,  221 
Birds  as  sowers,  298 
Blackberry,  57,  327 
Black-eyed  Susan,  352 
Blade-like  foliage,  123 
Blessed-thistle,  336 
Blue  eyed-grass,  124 
Bordered  pits,  284 
Bonsilene  roses,  136 
Bouncing  Bet,  221,  222 
Bracteoles,  165 
Bramble,  60 
Branched  leaves,  123 
Bridal  wreath,  373,  376 
Broad-leaved    evergreens,  273, 

274 

Buckeye,   56 
Buds,  55 

accessory,  60,  61 

adventitious,  61 

supernumerary,  60 
Bud  scales,  57,  87,  88 
Bud-scale  marks,  57 
Bud  scales  of  pines,  275,  276 
Bulrush,  193,  197 
Bulbs,  263 
Bundles,     fibro-vascular,    128, 

129,  130 

Bundle  sheath,  128,  159 
Burdock,  39,  320,  350,  352 
Bur,  chestnut,  81 
Bur,  horse-chestnut,  82,  83 
Bur  marigold,  45 
Buttercup,  39 
Butterfly-flowers,  33 
Butternut,  69,  71 

Cactus,  109,  no,  326 


Calamus,  143 

Calla-lily,  116 

Calla,  140,  143 

Callus,  394,  396 

Calyx,  19 

Calyx,  modified  to  aid  in  plant 

distribution,  45 
Calyces,  21 
Cambium,  134,  396 
Campion,  red,  225 
Campion,  white,  225 
Canada  thistle,  338 
Canoe-birch,  387 
Caoutchouc,  235 
Carbon,  90,  100 
Carex  group,  193,  194,  196 
Carices,  194 
Carrion-flies,  33 
Carrion-flower,  33 
Carrot,  126 
Caryopsis,  167 
Castor-oil  bean,  119 
Catharine  Mermets,  136 
Catkin,  51,  52 
Catkins,  66 
Cat-tail  flag,  144,  186 
Cat-tail  flags,  140,  148 
Cedar,  270,  289 
Cedars,  280,  288,  289 
Cell,  90,  91,  92 
Cells,  89,  92 
Celery,  fibro-vascular   bundles 

of,  128 
Cereus,     night  -  blooming,    27, 

200,  227 
Cherry,  56 
Chestnut-bur,  81 
Chestnuts,  blossoming,  81 
Chestnut  leaves,  126 
Chickory,  353 
Chickweed    356,  374 
Chlorophyll,  93,  96,  97,  100 
Chlorophyll  bodies,  93,  94,  95 
Chlorophyll  in  autumn,  368 
Christmas  custom  in  Italy,  356 
Chufa,  197 
Chrysanthemum,  39 
Clasping  leaf-bases,  124 
Classification  (Delphino's),  31 
Clematis,  240,  241,  242 
Climbing-plants,   233 
Clock  (flower),  228,  229 


Index 


403 


Clock  (De  Candolle's),  230 
Clock  of  Linnseus,  231 
"  Closed  "  bundles,  130 
Closing  of  night  flowers,  229 
Clover,  white,  339 
Club-moss,  251 
Club-mosses,  296 
Club-mosses,  prothalli  of,  252 
Coast-evergreens,  272 
Coast-grasses,  153 
Cockle-bur,  350,  352 
Cock's-comb,  354 
Columbines,  35 
Composite,  39,  351,  352,  353 
Composite  family,  338 
Composite  flowers,  46 
Compound  leaves,  126 
Common  milk-weed,  309 
Concentric  rings  in  timber,  132 
Conducting  tissue,  26 
Cone-bearers,  157,  270,  280 
Cone-bearers,  girdled,  282,  283 
Cone  bearers,    wood     of,    281, 

282,  283 
Cone-bearers,  winged  seeds  of, 

298 

Cones,  299 
Cone  scales,  299 
Coniferae,  284,  285 
Coniferae,  pollen.,  286,  287 
Conway  (Moncure  Dl.),  quoted, 

332 

Coontre,  spermatozoids  of,  296 
Copper-hazel,  97 
Copper-leaved  beech,  97 
Cork,  92,  105,  364,  384 
Cork,  cells,  365,  385 
Cork   undergarment   of    trees. 

385,  386,  387 

Corn  (Indian),  103,  117,  151,  174 
Corn  cockle,  225 
Corn-stalk,   126,  127,  130,  131 
Corolla,  19,  23 
Corylus  Americana,  380 
Cotyledon,  121 
Cotyledons,  119.  120 
Crepiscular  moths,  200 
Crocus,    19,   20,   22,   24,    25,  26, 

28,  29,  35 

Crow-foot  (water),  112 
Crude  sap,  129,  393, 
Cryptograms,  248 


Cycad,  spermatozoids  of,  296 
Cyperus  textilus,  197 
Cypress  (bald),  270,  274,  298 

Daffodils,  355 

Dandelions,  34,  43,  45,  374 

Dandelions  in  October,  373 

Dandelion  leaves,  320 

Darwin   quoted,    237,   238,  286, 
300 

Darwin's  classification  of  climb- 
ing plants,  233 

Datura  stramonium,  214 

Datura  tatula,  217 

Day-lily,  204,  227,  230 

Dead  nettle,  374 

De  Candolle's  flower-clock,  230 

Deepest-throated  flowers,  207 

Defences  against  browsing  ani- 
mals, 319,  320 

Degenerate  flowers,  86,  359 

Degeneration,  144 

Degeneration      of     grass-blos- 
soms, 156 

Delphino  quoted,  32,  33 

Dent-de-lion,  37 

Developmeut    of   sporangia   in 
true  ferns,  265 

Development    of    sporangia  in 
adders'  tongues,  266 

Devices  to  ensure  cross-fertili- 
zation, 33 

Dicotyledon,  120 

Dicolytedons,  117 
foliage  of,  123 
stems  of,  132,  133,  134 

Differences      between     diurnal 
and  nocturnal  flowers,  225 

Digested  sap,  129 

Dioecious  flower,  75 

Diurnal  primroses,  228 

Distinction  between  "prickles" 
and  thorns,  325,  326 

Dock,  352 

Dog-bane,  spreading,  303 

Door-yard  weeds,  350,  353 

Down,  53,  56,  76 

Dr.  Ogle,  80 

Drosera,  300 
Dung-flies,  32 

Dyer  (Thistleton),  quoted,  62, 
333,  336,  357 


404 


Index 


East  Indian  nettle,  329 
Eel  grass,  31 
Elaborated  sap,  395 
Elasticity  of  tendrils,  245 
Elm,  53,  61,  62,  74 
Elms,  50,  54,  75 
Embryo-sac,  26 
Empty  glumes,  162 
English  daisy,  347 
Evanescence  of  grass    flowers, 

173 

Evening  lychnis,  225 
Evening  primrose,  213 
Evening  primrose,  garden,  213 
Evening  primroses,  228,  230 
Evergreen  woods  : 

flowers  of,  263 

character  of,  268 
Evolution,  86 
Exalbuminous,  119 

Fall  of  the  leaf,  364,  365,  366 
Falling  of   needle-like    leaves, 

274 

Ferns,  246 
Fern  spores,  247 
Fern   spores,    germination    of, 

249,  250 

Fertilization  of  the  coontre,  295 
Fibro-vascular  bundle,  128,  129 
Fibro-vascular  bundles,  open, 

134 

Fibro-vascular  bundles    of  Di- 
cotyledons, 134 

Fibro-vascular  bundles  of  Mo- 
nocotyledons, 159 

Fir,  274,  2*82 

Firs,  299 

First-born  of  flowering  plants, 
270 

First  flowers  in  the  world,  156, 
285 

Flags,  cat-tail,  124 

Flag,  sweet,  143 

Flax,  332 

Flaxseed,  119 

Flies  : 

carrion  and  dung,  33 
big,  32 
smaller,  33 

Floret,  40,  43 

Florets,  39,  43,  44,  45 


Flower-clock,  229,  230 

of  De  Candolle,  230 

of  Linnaeus,  231 
Flower : 

of  death,  353,  355 

of  immortality,  354,  355 

perfect,  77 

pistillate,  77 

staminate,  77 

tendrils,  243 
Flowering  fern,  265 
Flowering  glumes,  164,  165 
Flowering  plants,  248 
Flowerless  plants,  249 
Flowers  : 

imperfect,  66 

naked,  66 

of  life,  355 

of  the  evergreen  woods.  268 

of  the  nettle,  330,  331 
Folding      creases      of      young 

leaves,  56 
Foliage  : 

floating,  112 

submerged,  112,  113 

of  parasites,  98 
Forest-trees,  64 
Forests  of  Maine  and  Canada, 

272 

Formic  acid,  329 
Fraxinus  excelsior,  77 
Fronds,  259 

Fruit  as  defined  in  botany,  46 
Fuchsia,  139 
Fungi,  99 
Funkia  Japonica,  204 

Garden  evening  primrose,  214 
Generative  cell,  293,  294 
Generative  cells,  of  pine  pollen, 

294 

Georgia  yucca,  212 
Geranium,  rose,  126 
Germination      of     fern-spores. 

249,  250 
Gingko,  270 

spermatozoids  of,  296 
Girdled  cone-bearers,  282,  283 
Girdled  maples,  283 
Girdled  oaks,  283 
Gladiolus,  35 
Glastonbury  white  thorn>  375 


Index 


405 


Glucose,  102,  103 
Glumes,  empty,  162 

flowering,  164,  165 

outer,  162 

Golden-rod,  seeds  of    349 
Gorse,  114,  323,  326 
Grain,  117,  167,  168 
Grain-fields,  weeds  of,  351 
Grains,  118 

"  Grains"  of  chlorophyll,  94 
Grant   Allen    quoted,    86,    319, 

320 
Grape   tendrils,   revolution  of, 

243  . 

Grape  vine,  242 
Grass,  149,  156 
Grass-blades,  123 
Grass-blossoms   visited    by  in- 
sects, 173 

Grass-flowers,  161,  173 
Grass,  leaves  of,  160 
Grass-pollen,  waste  of,  170 
Grasses,  118,  151,  152,  157,  165 

as  sand-binders,  153,  154 

blossoms  of,  139,  140,  165 

coast,  153 

modes    of    seed-distribution, 
169 

mud-binding,  153 

nodes  of,  158 

number  of  species  of,  r68 

sheaths  of,  158 

spikelets  of,  168 

stems  of,  188 
Gray,  Prof.,  83 

"  Grete  Herbale"  quoted,  356 
Great      Britain     saved     by     a 

thistle,  337 
Green  bark,  132 
Groundsel,  39,  no,  352 
Growing-point,  120 
Gums,  63 
Gymnosperm,  297 
Gymnosperms,  290,  296 
Gymnosperms     (prothalli     of), 
292 

Hackberry,  74 

Hairs  of  ferns,  261 

Hairs,  various  uses  of,  42,  46, 

no,  320 
Hans  Andersen  quoted,  378 


Hare's  palace,  356 

Hartford  fern,  262 

Haulm,  160 

Hawk  moths,  202,  203 

Hawthorne,  323,  326 

Hawk-moths,  203 

Hazel,  44 

Hazel,  copper,  97 

Hazel-nut,  69 

Hazel-nut  tree,  380 

Heart-wood,  385 

Heather,  99 

Hedge-hog  grass,  169 

Hemlock,  270 

Hemlock,  seedlings  of,  270 

Hemlock,    staminal    leaves  of, 

288 

Hemlocks,  299 
Hemp,  332 
Heraldry,  336 
Herbivorous  animals,  96 
Herbert,  George,  65 
Hickory,  71 
Hickories,  75 
Hobble-bush,  57 
Holland,  155 
Hollow  stems,  38,  157 
Holly,  74 

44  Holy  thorns,"  374 
Honey,  42 

Honeysuckle,  201,  204,  227,  230 
Honeysuckle,  twining  of,  239 
Honeysuckles,  228 
Hook-climbers,  235 
Hooks   at  tips   of  vine-sprays, 

237 

Hop-vine,  239 
Horse-chestnut,  78,  79,  80,  82, 

85,  86,  120 

Horse-chestnut  bur,  83 
Horse-chestnuts,  84 
Horse-tails,  248,  251 
Horse-tails,  prothalli  of,  252 
Humming-bird,  34 
Humming  bird  moths,  203 
Huxley,  90 
Hydrogen,  90,  100 

Ill-timed  growth,  376,  377 
Immortelles,  354 
Imperfect  flowers,  66 
Indian  corn,  117,  126,  174 


406 


Index 


Indian  hemp,  309 

Indian  pipe,  99,  269 

Indian  shot,  103 

Insect  fertilized  flowers, 157, 159 

Insect  messengers,  32 

Insects,  42,  75,  173 

Involucre,  44 

Iris,  35,  124 

Irish  gorse,  114,  323 

Iron-wood,  69 

Ivy,  English,  235 

Ivy,  poison,  235 

Jacqueminots,  136 
J?mestown  weed,  214 
Japan  lily,  204 

apan  lilies,  212 

asmine,  207,  239 

can  Paul  Richter  quoted,  230 

ersey  pine,  275 

imson  weed,  214,  217,  227 

uniper  : 

berries  of,  289,  298 
seedling,  270 
Junipers,  288,  296 

Kerner  quoted,  286 
Kinshipof  flowering  and  flower- 
less  plants,  295 

Lace-flower,  349 
Law  of  disused  organs,  46 
Laws   for   preservation  of  for- 
ests, 155 

of  grasses,  154,  155 
Leaf-bud,  59 
Leaf-buds  opening  in  autumn, 

375 

Leaf-climbers,  233,  240 
Leaf-scars,  366 
Leaf-skin,  366 
Leaf,  structure  of,  89,  90 
Leaf,  tissue,  90 

Leaves  converted  into  prickles, 
114 

store  houses,  113 

traps,  115 
Leaves  : 

floating,  112 

submerged,  112,  113 

succulent,  108 

variety  in,  115 
Lenticels,  290,  292 


Leptoporangrateae,  266,  267 

Lichens,  248,  383 

Light  necessary  to  protoplasm 

making,  148 
Ligule,  160 
Liguliflorae,  353 
Lily,  116,  117,  123,  148 

kin,  118,  121,  125,  126,  129 

leaves,  108,  123 

stem,  131 
Lilies,  130 
Links  connecting  flowering  and 

flowerless  plants,  270 
Linnaeus'  floral  clock,  231 
Little  panic-grass,  153 
Liverworts,  248 
Loculi,  369 
Loculus,  369 
Locust,  323 
Longfellow    quoted,    282,    355, 

361 

Love  charms,  359 
Love  divination,  336 
Love  lies  bleeding,  354 
Lubbock  quoted,  341 
Lychnis,  evening,  225 
Lycopodinese,  296 
Lycopodiums,  251 

Macrospore,  27,  28 
Macrospores,  28 
Magnolia,  33 
Maiden-hair  tree,  270 
Maple,  56,  59,  84,  85 

red,  50,  54 
Maples,  80 

red,  75 

Marram-grass,  153,  155 
Marsh-flies,  143 
May-apple,  56 
May-flower,  268 
Melancholy  thistle,  336 
Mesquit,  running,  153 
Microbes,  248 
Microspore,  24,  27 
Microspores,  24,  25,  27,  28 
Midsummer-dream  plant,  357 
Milkweed  (of  South  Africa),  no 
Milkweed,    trap    of,    309,    310, 

311,  313,  314,  315 
Milkweed,  seeds  of,  349 
Milton  quoted,  355 


Index 


407 


Mineral  crystals,  384 
Mistletoe,  108 
Monocotyledon,  121,  128 
Monocotyledons,  116,  117 

leaves  of,  123 
Monoecious  flowers,  69 
"  Monoeciously      polygamous" 

flowers,  73 
Moonworts,  266 
Morning-glory  vines,  236,  239 
Mosses,  248,  383 
Moth,  34 
Moths  : 

crepiscular,  200 

hawk,  202,  203 

humming-bird,  203 

nocturnal,  33,  200 

twilight,  33 

sphinx,  203,  221 
Mountain  evergreens,  272 
Mucilage,  136,  255,  384 
Mullein,  320,  347 
Miiller  quoted,  42,  173,  211,  304 

Naked  flowers,  66 

National    flower    of    Scotlan,., 

337 

Natural  wind-break,  271,  272  . 
Nature's  most   valuable  colon- 
ists,  156 
Nectar,  29,  30 
Neck-canal  cells,  255 
Needle-like    leaves,    272,    274, 

276,  279 
Nettle,  332,  333,  336 

flowers  of,  330,  331 

sting  of,  329,  330 
Nettles,  317 
Net-veined  leaves,  148 
Night-blooming  cereus,  27,  200 

flowers,  200 
Nitrogen,  90 
Nocturnal  flowers,  225 

moths,  200 

Nodes  of  grasses,  158 
November  violets,  375,  378 
Nuts,  71,  82 

Oak,  56,  62,  64,  69,  85,  86,  120 

Oaks,  93 

Oat,  161 

Oat-blossoms,  162,  165,  166 


Oats,  151 

Oat-spikelets,  168 

October  dandelions,  375 

Oenothera  biennis,  213 

Ogle  (Dr.),  80 

Oil,  119,  384 

Oleander,  106 

Oosphere,  257 

Oospore,  257,  259 

Open     fibre-vascular    bundles, 

134 

Ophioglossaceae,  266 
Orange-tree,  326 
Orchid,  27,  47 
Orchids,  26,  34,  116 
Osmunda,  262,  265 
Ovary,  47 

Ovule  of  a  cone-bearer,  290 
Ovule  of  the  yew,  297 
Oxygen,  90,  100,  101 

Painted-cup,  98 

Paleae,  164,  165 

Palet,  164 

Palmetto  trunk,  127,  130,  131 

Palmettos,  126,  140 

Palms,  116 

Panic-grass,  153 

Papyrus,  197 

Parallel  veins,  123 

Parasites,  98,  99,  269 

Parasitism,  77,  98 

Pasture  thistles,  342 

Pear-tree,  55 

Peas,  119 

Peel  of  a  potato,  386 

Peony, 28 

Perfect  flower,  77 

Perigynium,  196 

Petals,  21 

Phanerogams,  248 

Phosphorus,  90 

Phosphoric  acid,  367 

Phragmites  communis,  174 

Pickerel-weed,  186 

Pigment,  94.95,  97 

Pig-weed,  354 

Pinaceae,  270 

Pine,  270,  272,  282 

Pine-apple,  326,  329 

Pine,  archegonia  of,  292,  293 

Pine-drops,  269 


408 


Index 


Pine-family,  270 

Pine,  Jersey,  275 

Pine,  pitch,  275,  283 

Pine,  pollen  of,  287,  293 

Pine-sap,  99 

Pine,  scrub,  275 

Pine,  white,  281 

Pines,  299 

vitality  of,  283 

Pinks,  139 

Pink  family,  222,  225 

Pistil,  22,  29 

Pistillate  flower,  77 

Pith,  102,  130,  132 

Plantago  lanceolata,  359 

Plantago  major,  357 

Plaintain,  128,  357 

Plaintain,  flowers  of,  359,  360 

Plumed  fruits,  349 

Plum-leaves,  56 

Poison-ivy,  235 

Pollen,  22,  25,  26,  28 

Pollen-carriers,  30 

Pollen-grain,  24 

Pollen-grains    of    the     honey- 
suckle, 204 

Pollen-tube,  26,  27 

Pollen     of    "  water-fertilized  " 
flowers,  30,  31 

Pollen      of     "wind-fertilized" 
flowers,  30,  31 

Pollen  of  oat  blossoms,  165 

Pollen  of  rushes,  185 

Pollen,  waste  of,  28,  3 

Polygamous  flowers,  73 

Pond-weeds,  31 

Poplar,   31,   50,  51,    52,    54,  61, 
73 

Poplars,  49,  51.  73,  75,  93 
white,  53 

Populus  alba,  50 

Potato,  starch  grains  of,  103 

Potash,  367 

Prickles,  no,  319,  323 

Prickles,  how  they  differ  from 
thorns,  325,  326 

Prickly-ash,  74 

Primroses,  diurnal,  228 

Primroses,  evening,  228,  230 

Problems  of  nature,  345 

Procambium,  130 

Prof.  Gray  quoted,  83 


Prof,    von    Sachs  quoted    367, 

368 

Proteids,  91 

Protoplasm,  90,  91,  100,  105 
Prothalli,  251 

of  adders'  tongues,  252 

of  club-mosses,  252 

of  ferns,  252 

of  gymnosperms,  292 

of  horse-tails,  252 

of  selaginellas,  292 
Prothallus,  250,  258,  259,  298 

Rag-weed,  39,  350,  352 

Rape,  119 

Ray  flowers,  352 

Red  campion,  225 

Red  cedars,  288,  296,  298 

Red  maple,  54,  74 

Red  maples,  75 

Red-top,  169 

Reed,  175 

Reeds,  175,  176 

Reptiles,  age  of,  285 

Resin,  282,  384 

Reversion  to  type,  136 

Revolving  of  vine-tips,  236,237 

Rib-wort,  357 

Ripple-grass,  359 

Rice,  118,  151 

blossom  of,  172 

wild,  175 
Richter     (Jean     Paul)    quoted, 

230 

Rings  in  timber,  135 
Rogue  type,  98,  99 
Rolled  fronds  of  ferns,  260 
Root-climbers,  234,  235 
Root-hairs,  250,  388 
Root-stocks,  of  ferns,  260 
Root-stocks,    of    grasses,    152, 

153 

Root-tips,  388 
Rose,  116,  117,  123,  128 
Roses,  136 
Rose-bush,  131 
Rose-geranium,  126 
Rose-kin,  126,  129,  132 
Royal  osmunda,  265 
Rudiments,  80 
Running  mesquit,  153 
Rush-lights,    180 


Index 


409 


Rushes,  116,  179,  180 

dependent     upon    the    wind, 

185 

flowers  of,  182,  183 

knotty-leaved,   181 

pollen  of,  185 

ripe  seed-vessels  of,  187,  188 

water,   180,  181,  185,  186,  187 

wood,  180,  182,  183 
Ruskin  quoted,  115 
Rye,  103,  118,  151 

Salts,  105 

Salvia,  35 

Sand-bur,  169,  172 

Sand-binders,  154 

Sap,  crude,  129,  395 

Sap,  digested,  129 

Sap,  elaborated,  395,  397 

Saw-palmetto,  329 

Scale-bark,  390 

Scale-leaves,  276 

Scale-like  foliage,  272 

Scales  of  the  bud,  57,  58,  87,  88 

of  ferns,  261 

Scars  left  by  bud-scales,  58,  59 
Scotch  cloth,  332 
Scotland,    national    flower    of, 

337 

Scouring  rushes,  251 
Scrub-pine,  295 
Scypanthus  elegans,  239 
Sealing  of  leaf-scars  in  autumn, 

394,  395 

Sea-weeds,  97,  248 

Sea-sand  reed,  153 

Sedges,  116,  179 

blossoms  of,  139,  190 
leaf  arrangement  of,  188 
seed  distribution  of,  191 
small  value  of,  196 

Seed,  22,  247,  249 

Seed-bearing  scale,  297 

Seed-leaves,  119,  120 

Seed     distribution     of     water- 
rushes,  187 

Seeds  of  water-rushes,  185,  186 
of  wood-rushes,  185 

Seedling,  75,  120 

cone-bearers,  270,  271 

Seedlings,  73,  74,  86 

Selagi.ieila,  296 


Selaginella,  archegonia  of,  291 

prothalli  of,  292 

spermatozoids  of,  291 

spore  of,  290,  291 
Seniors  of  the  forest,  285 
Sensitive  fern,  262,  265 
Sepals,  21,  22 
Sheaths  of  grasses,  158 
Shear-grass,   188 
Shepherd's  purse,  376 
Silence  of  the  evergreen  woods 

269 

Silene,  227 
Silver  fir,  274 

poplar,  50 

"  Skeleton  "  of  the  leaf,  87 
Sneeze-weed,  352 
Snowdrop,  380 
Soft-rush,  182 
"  Sommer-go>vk,"  380 
Sori,  261 
Sorus,  261 
Spadix,  143 
Spathe,  140,  144 
Spermatozoid,  25^ 
Spermatozoids,  256 

of  gingko,  296 
Sphinx  Carolina,  218 

convolvuli,  221 

moths,  202,  203 
Spider-wort,   124 
"  Spike-rush,"   193 
Spikelet,  162,  164,  165 
Spikelets,  162,  168 
Spinach,  38 
Spines,  no,  323 
Spore,  structure  of,  247,  249 
Sporangia,  261,  262 
Sparangium,  261,  262 
Sporangium,  development  of  in 
true  ferns,  265 

in  adders'  tongues,  266 
Spore-bearing    fronds    of     the 

sensitive  fern,  265 
Spring    blossoms    in    late    au- 
tumn, 373,  375 
'!  Spring-wood,"  134 
Spruce,  270,  274 
Spruces,  299 
Spurges,  no 
Squirrel-tail  grass,  169 
Stamen,  20 


4io 


Index 


Staminate  flowers,  77,  287 
Staminal  leaves,  287,  288 
Starch,  making  of,  100,  102,  113 
Starches,  63,  119,  121 
Starch,  grains  of  : 

barley,  103 

Indian  corn,  103 

Indian  shot,  103 

rye,  103 

wheat,  103 

timber,  102,  103 
Stemless  lady-slipper,  268 
Stems  of  grasses,  188 

of  sedges,  188 
Stephanotis,  207,  227 
Stigmatic  surface,  25,  26 
Stigmas  of  forest-trees,  69 

of  wind-fertilized  flowers,  31 
Sting  of  the  nettle,  329,  330 
Stoma,  107,  108 
Stomata,  106,  107,  108,  109 
Submerged  foliage,  112,  113 
Succulent  leaves,  109 
Sulphur,  89 
"  Summer-wood,"  134 
Sundew, 300 

Sunshine    necessary  to   starch- 
making.  100 
Swamp  thistle,  340,  342 
Sweet-alyssum    371 
Sweetness      of      night-flowers, 
227,  228 

Tannin,  384 

Taraxicum,  37 

Tassles  of  the  poplar,  52 

Taxacese,  270 

Teasel,  323,  325 

Tendril,  113,  244,  245 

Tendril-bearers,  233,  235,  240 

Tendrils,  242,  244 

elasticity  of,  245 

flower,  243 

of  the  grape-vine,  243 

of  the  Virginia  creeper,  244 

revolution  of,  243 

strength  of,  245 

useless,  245 
Tennyson  quoted,  76 
Thistle,  326,  345,  349,  352 

in  folk-lore,  333,  336 

in  folk-medicine,  336 


Thistle,  in  heraldry,  336 

pasture,  342 

swamp,  340,  342 
Thistles,  317 
Thistleton  Dyer  quoted,  62,  333, 

336,  356,  357 
Thor,  336 

Thorn,  definition  of,  325,  326 
Thorns,  323 

Thread  made  from  nettles,  332 
Three-ranked  arrangement   of 

sedge-leaves,  188 
Thrift  of  nature,  242 
Timber,  103 
Timothy-grass.  168 
Tissue,  new,  91 

of  leaves,  89,  90 

waste,  91 

Tobacco-worm,  218 
Tomato-worm,  218 
Tracheids,  283,  284 
Trailing  evergreen,  251 

hemlock,  269 
Transpiration,  106 
Traps  for  snaring  insects,  33 
Trap  of  the  dogbane,  306,  314 

of  the  milk-weed,  310,  311 
Trap-setting  plants,  300 
Tree-blossoms,  65 
Trunk    of    the    palmetto,    127, 

130,  I3i 

Tubers,  102 

Tube    put  forth  by  the  pollen- 
grain,  26,  27 

Tubuliflorae,  353 

Twilight  moths,  33 

Ulmus  Montana,  380 
Upas  tree,  333 

Veins,  89,  126 

parallel,   123 
Veinlets,  126 
Venus  fly-trap,  300 
Vessels,  wood,  128 
Vestiges  of  grass-petals,  165 
Vestiges    of  the    prothallus  in 

flowers,  295 

Vestiges  of  atrophied  seeds,  83 
Vine-tips  : 

hooked,  237 

revolution  of,  237 


Index 


411 


Vine-tips,  speed  of,  239 
Vines,  Sidney,  quoted,  320 
Virginia  creeper,  237,  242,  245 

tendrils    of,  243,  244 
Vitality  of  pines,  282,  283 
Von  Sachs,  Prof.,   quoted,  367, 
368 

Walnut,  69,  71 

Walnuts,  75 

Wasp,  34 

Waste  of  pollen,  28,  286 

Water-crowfoot,  112 

Water-fertilized  flowers,  30,  31 

Water-loving  plants,  numerous 
seeds  of,  185 

Water-rushes,  180 
capsules  of,  185 
seeds  of,  185,  186,  187 

Wayfaring  tree,  57 

Webber,  Herbert,  295 

Webster's  definition  of  a  weed, 

347 

Weed  of  civilization,  361 
Weeds,  36,  37 

as  weather  prophets,  355,  356 

how    they    sow    themselves, 
349,  350 

of  grain-fields,  351 
Well-water,  103 
Wheat,  121,  151 

blossom  of,  172,  173 
Wheat-germ,  118 
White  ash,  75,  76 
White  campion,  225 
White  clover,  339 
White  lily,  108 
"  White-man's-foot.,"  361 
Wide   range  of  wind-fertilized 

plants,  286 
Wild  carrot,  349    " 
Wild  lettuce.  320 
Wild  orange,  323 


Wild  rice,  174 
Wild  rose,  136 
Wild  strawberries,  373 
Wild  yew,  270 
Willow,  58,  61,  62 

pussy,  50 

swamp,  50,  54 
Willows,  49,  75,  93 
Wind-fertilized  flowers,  30,  31 
Winged  fruits,  85,  349 
Winged  pollen  of  the  coniferae, 

287 

Winter  bud,  88 
Winter  refuge  of  birds,  280 
Wistaria,  239 
Witch-hazel,  379 
Wood,  132,  134,  135 

of  cone-bearers,  281,  282,  283 
Wood-rushes,  180,  182 

capsules  of,  185 

seeds  of,  185 
Wood-thrushes,  345,  346 
Wood-vessels,  128,  133 
"  Wool-grass,"  191,  193 
Wound  cork,  364 
Wound-weed,  357 
Wych-elm,  380 
Wych-hazel,  379 

Xyris  flexuosa,  187 

Yarrow,  126,  165 
Yellow-eyed  grass,  187 
Yew,  274,  276 

European,  270 

wild,  270 
Yews,  270,  298 
Yucca,  habit  of  growth  of,  131 

fertilization  of,  208,  211 

filamentosa,  207,  208 

recurvifolia,  212 

Zamia  integrifolia,  295 


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